


Brother Mine

by etrix



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Curtain Fic, Gen, Kid Fic, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Reverse Big Bang Challenge, Schmoop, Teenagers, Winter, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:33:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etrix/pseuds/etrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was out on a hunt when the call came: Kate Milligan was dead, and John was named in her will as the guardian of her son—his son—Adam. Pissed but knowing his duty, Dean pulled Sam out school during exam week, and they went to Windom in the thick of the Minnesota winter. 7-yr-old Adam was a lot like Sammy at that age, but Dean wasn't ready to accept him as another Winchester. Then the boy's life was threatened and all bets were off.</p>
<p>Written for Round 2 of spn_illuminated's 2012 reverse mini-bang. Art by tattooeddevil.</p>
<p>If you want to listen to the soundtrack, I've put it on [ <a href="http://8tracks.com/etrix/brother-mine-st">8tracks</a> ]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Now available in Simplified Chinese thanks to M-Ich-Ell-Yeh, It's on mtslash which requires an account to view. <http://www.mtslash.net/thread-240379-1-1.html>.

  


Dean's cell phone rang.

He stared at it for a moment before he flipped it open. Not many people had the number. Dad had only gotten it for him last year, after a hunt that lasted a month longer than planned. He pretended the excitement he felt was anticipation, not fear. This wouldn't be _that_ phone call; the one that said John wasn't ever making it home again.

"Hello?" he said, carefully not giving a name like his dad had trained him.

"Oh, hi. Is this Dean Winchester?" asked a voice Dean didn't recognize. It was deep and fluid, like Darth Vader or Barry White, but with more than a hint of America's northern Plains in its accent.

"Yeah. This is Dean," he confirmed. "And you are?"

"I doubt my name means much to you, but it's Joe Barton. How's the weather there, down where you're at?"

Dean pulled the phone away from his ear. Some strange dude had phoned him to chat about the weather? "It's, uh, fine. Thanks. What're you calling about?"

"Oh, yah. Um, I met your father about seven years or so ago, now," said Joe Barton. The hesitation in the guy's voice sounded odd in those rich bass tones. "I tried calling him, but his message told me to phone you."

"Yeah, he's working," Dean said. "Remote area, you know how it is."

"Paying work, or, ya know, his _other_ work."

Okay, Dean thought, who _was_ this guy? He'd bet money that Joe Barton wasn't a Hunter, yet he knew that what John Winchester hunted. Or maybe not… Dean considered the likelihood that his dad had been involved in some shady dealings and decided to ask a different question.

"Does it make a difference? If you need his help with something –" He stopped, realizing there wasn't anything he could do. Dean was stuck here with Sammy because the princess had exams and refused to go anywhere, and because his dad had ordered him to look after his brother. Again. Always.

"I know a couple guys I can call," he offered.

"Oh jeez, no; nothing like that. No more ghouls hanging around, so there's nothing to worry about there, no." The caller gave a soft laugh. "Actually, if it's not too much trouble, I'm calling about your brother."

"You're calling about Sam?" Dean was completely confused.

"No, not Sam," the guy interrupted. "I'm talking about Adam. Your other brother."


	2. Prologue

Ms. Strahovski was surprised, and somewhat disturbed, to find a handsome young man in a leather coat and biker boots standing outside her door. He wasn't a student at Northeast High School; she was sure of that. She would have remembered him if he'd been a student since everything about him—the coat, his eyes, and attitude—all said "notice me".

"May I help you?" she asked, calmly professional. How had he gotten past her secretary? Annie wasn't susceptible to male charm, bribes, or verbal threats.

"Are you Ms. Strahovski?"

She nodded and the young man smiled. Oh, yes, she thought, she'd definitely remember that smile if she'd seen it before.

"I'm Dean. Sam Winchester's brother."

 _This_ was Sam's brother? "He's spoken of you," she replied cautiously.

"Yeah?" he said with a pleased little smile. "I'm sure he left some out."

He certainly had, probably starting with Dean having a misdemeanor felony record, but that wasn't something Ms. Strahovski was going to say out loud. "How can I help you, Mr. Winchester?"

Green eyes opened wide in horror, and Ms. Strahovski smiled inside. She knew exactly what the young man was going to say next.

"Dean," he replied on schedule. "Just 'Dean'."

"Very well, Dean. What can I do to help you?"

"Um, well. Something's come up—a family thing," he said. Curiously, he was shifting from foot to foot—the first signs of discomfort she'd seen in him. "I need to take Sammy out of school for a week or so."

"Impossible," she said. "It's final exams. Your brother's in, what? Grade ten?" Dean nodded. "Then he has at least two more exams to complete."

"Yeah, I know."

"The results of these exams can count for up to half of his final mark," she pushed.

"Yeah, I know."

"Your brother is a very bright young man. I'm sure you don't want to ruin his chances for a bright future."

But she'd pushed too far. Dean Winchester no longer looked uncomfortable; he looked pissed off. It was unfortunate that the hint of danger didn't detract from his attractiveness.

"Look, lady. If I wasn't concerned with his finals, I'da yanked him from school and we'd be on the road right now, but I _do_ care, so I _am_ here." He took a breath. It didn't reduce his anger by any appreciable amount. "We have to go to Minnesota. We'll be back next week, so you could just let him take the test then…" he trailed off suggestively.

"Mr. Winchester—Dean," she corrected when his scowl deepened. "That's just not practical –"

"Why not? We'll go, get things sorted out, and be back before the next semester."

Ms. Strahovski barely managed not to roll her eyes.

"I mean it," Dean said. "I mean, I gotta go do this thing in Minnesota, but it's just signing papers, I think. Then we'll come back and Sam can do his tests. I know it's important to Sammy, and if I don't have him back in time, he'll nag me ragged, so believe me: I'll have him back."

She was caught by a note in the young man's voice. He wasn't making this up. He wasn't trying to pull some con. He meant exactly what he said.

She took another look at him, trying to ignore the leather and the boots. The jacket was a size or two too big, as if it hadn't originally been his. It was, however, well cared for. The same could be said for the plaid shirt he was wearing over a thin, tight T-shirt. One button was different from the rest. It was also, now that she was looking, sewn on somewhat crooked.

Sam's clothes had shown the same care, but she'd ascribed it to his family not wanting to spend a great deal of money on clothes the boy would outgrow in a month or two. Sam Winchester was not only smart, but he was closing in on being the tallest boy in tenth grade, when he'd started out as nearly the shortest. And this was only January.

Now, however, Ms. Strahovski had to consider that there just wasn't that much money to begin with.

Yet Sam always had cash for lunch and for field trips. He was on the soccer team, which might have been the least expensive of their sports clubs, but still required special shoes and a uniform deposit. Looking at Dean Winchester, she realized it was he who made sure Sam didn't lose out. He was the one raising his sibling, not the father. She sighed, because it was an all-too-familiar tale at Northeast High School.

"Why don't you just go?" she asked. "Sam's certainly old enough, and mature enough, to be left on his own for a week."

Dean's scowl deepened. "Not to hear our dad tell it," he muttered. "Whenever we leave Sammy alone, he always gets into some kind of trouble."

Ms. Strahovski's eyebrow lifted. That wasn't her impression of Samuel Winchester. Then she thought of Sam's slim build, shaggy hair, and sweet smile, and realized what kind of trouble a good-looking young man like Sam could get into in this area.

"He has…?" When Dean didn't respond immediately, she prompted him. "Which two exams does Sam have left?"

"Oh, Biology and Spanish," Dean said. "Biology is tomorrow afternoon, and Spanish is Thursday morning.

Sam's brother knew Sam's schedule as well as Sam probably did. It was another sign the big brother was acting _in loco parentis_. "Are you sure you won't make it back for the Biology exam?" she asked.

She could see Dean frowning in thought and could even guess what he was thinking: it was Tuesday afternoon, and it would take at least five hours to drive from Lincoln to Minnesota, maybe more depending on their destination and the weather. Given that, she wasn't surprised when the young man shook his head.

"Don't wanna risk it. I could say yes, and not make it back then I'd be screwed," he said. "We could make it back for Thursday though. Could he, like, do the Biology exam Thursday afternoon instead? Sam thinks it's important."

And Dean would consider it important only for that reason, Ms. Strahovski concluded. "I'll make the arrangements, Dean," she said. "Tests on Thursday. New semester on the Wednesday following. No do-overs. Do you understand?"

"Got it," Dean nodded.

Ms. Strahovski watched Sam's brother swagger out of her office, and hoped she hadn't done the wrong thing.

~o0o~

  
Sam walked out of the school and saw the Impala first, and his brother second. He stopped, because that wasn't a good sign. Outside of emergencies or really crappy neighborhoods, Dean hadn't picked him up from school since Truman High in Indiana, and his showdown with Dirk the Jerk.

"See you tomorrow, Winchester," Dave called. Sam waved back even as he wondered if he would see Dave tomorrow.

As usual, Dean made Sam walk all the way to him at the car instead of meeting him halfway. It was some kind of power thing Dean wasn't even aware of doing. Their father did it, too—forcing them to approach him, come into "his space". It was annoying, and it made Sam want to yell at Dean, tell him that he wasn't Sam's father.

His mood wasn't helped by the way he ached, all over and deep. Growing pains, they called it, when the bones grew so fast it stretched the muscles and tendons. It made him short-tempered with the stupid secret way they lived their lives. It made him want to shout, and stomp, demand to know what was going on at the top of his lungs.

He couldn't do it.

A lifetime's training of 'keeping a low profile' just wouldn't let him be that conspicuous. So he did what he always did, his only way of asserting himself in public. He didn't rush. Instead, he walked casually, slowly, as if Dean waiting by the car for him wasn't a big, red emergency light.

"What is it?" he asked instead of saying hello. When Dean just clenched his jaw in that stubborn-ass way of his, Sam's imagination exploded. "Is it Dad? Has he been hurt?"

Dean worked his jaw loose. "No, it's not Dad. It's _because_ of Dad, but it's not about him."

The pressure on Sam's chest lifted and he half-resented that he'd even been worried. It wasn't like Dad worried about them when he went off on these friggin' hunts and left them behind. Except, said a small, easily ignorable, voice, when he left Dean behind to make sure Sam was safe, like he had this time.

Of course, Sam didn't _need_ a babysitter, but when he'd said that to their dad, all John Winchester, Mighty Hunter, had done was yell him down. He hadn't listened. He never listened.

The bitter refrain, combined with his aching bones, made his voice harsher than he'd intended. "You mean he hasn't been thrown in jail as a suspected psycho killer?" he sneered.

Dean looked at him. "You know he hasn't, Sammy. Don't be such a little bitch." Which was what Sam expected his brother to say, but then Dean followed it with, "It would be easier to wrap my head around if he had."

"What?" Sam asked, confused.

Dean didn't answer. Instead, he pushed away from the car. "Get in," Dean ordered.

Sam wanted to refuse. He deserved to know what was going on, after all, but Dean was upset in a way that was making Sam uneasy. Dean seemed almost… fragile. And that was _not_ a word Sam had ever associated with his pain-in-the-ass big brother. So he did as he was told; he walked around the Impala and opened the back door so he could throw his bag onto the seat.

The duffle bags were in the back seat.

"Dean?"

"I already talked to the VP, Strahovski," Dean said. "I promised to have you back on Thursday for your last two tests."

"But…"

"Fuck, man! Just get in the car! I'll explain it on the way."

Sam did as he was told, but slowly, trying to figure all the possibilities. Injury, arrest, death, possession, extra help, the start of the Zombie Apocalypse…

"C'mon! Get your fucking ass in gear," Dean shouted from the driver's seat. "We got ground to cover."

"Why," Sam asked as he got in the car. "Where are we going?"

"Minnesota."

"Minnesota?" he repeated, stupidly. What the hell was in Minnesota?

It took him two hours to get the answer out of Dean. Two hours in which his bones itched and his muscles burned, and he was forced to listen to Iron Maiden screaming at full volume. He knew it was Dean's way of getting rid of anger when he couldn't shoot something or beat someone up, but it didn't stop the headache from forming at the base of Sam's skull.

However, since it _was_ his brother's way of dealing with anger, or any other strong emotion, Sam gave him those two hours, before he reached over to the cassette deck and turned it down.

"What's in Minnesota, Dean?" he asked. "'Cause it has to be serious if you're taking me on a hunt."

"It's not a hunt," Dean snapped out.

Of course not, Sam thought with familiar bitterness. He wasn't trusted on hunts yet, even though he was _fifteen years old_. Dad had taken Dean on hunts with him when Dean was _twelve_.

Not that Sam really wanted to hunt, but it was the principle of it.

He sighed. His psyche was completely messed up.

"So why are we going to Minnesota? In January, no less?"

"Turns out… About a half-dozen years ago." Dean stopped again and swallowed. Sam's eyebrows went up at the display of nerves.

"It turns out Dad's condom broke. Or maybe he didn't bother wearing one." Dean's voice was bitter.

Sam's jaw hit the leather seat. "You mean–" he started to say, but Dean wasn't finished.

"Either way, he didn't know how to keep it in his pants. So, yeah, we've got a half-brother out there, Sammy. One he damn-well _hid_ from us."

"We have a brother?"

" _Half_ -brother," Dean answered.

"Another Winchester?"

"No," Dean snapped. "Dad and the kid's mother never married _."_

No matter how shocked Sam was, the chance to needle his brother was too good to pass up. "They don't have to get _married_ for his kid to have the right to use Dad's last name."

Dean turned to glare at him. "It's 'Milligan'," he said. "The kid's name is Adam Milligan, and from what the dude on the phone said, his mom hadn't even told Dad."

"Lucky kid," Sam muttered low enough so that Dean probably couldn't hear him. "So she finally decided to tell Dad, and since Dad's nearly impossible to get hold of, she told you instead. Is that what happened?" Sam prepared himself to repel the head-slap he knew was coming.

"No, jackass. That's not what happened," Dean said. He didn't aim a slap at Sam's head though. He just resettled his fingers around the steering wheel, and Sam could see the knuckles turn white. "She died."

Sam's lips formed a silent 'oh' of comprehension. "Dad's the next of kin?"

"Apparently," Dean confirmed. "But since Dad's not available, _I'm_ gonna have to go and figure out what to do with the kid."

"What d'you mean 'what to do with him'? He's our brother, and family sticks together, right?" Sam said. "I think I saw that in a Disney movie."

"Right, like you believe that," Dean replied. "You're the one who's always bitching about how awful you were raised –"

"How _we_ were raised," Sam interrupted.

"Yeah, but I didn't mind it," Dean said, cutting him off.

Part of Sam wanted to argue, as it always did when the subject came up. How could Dean like moving all the time, never keeping any friends, never having a home to bring them to—never knowing if Dad was going to make it back from whatever MOTW hunt he's on? But he didn't bother. Dean had made up his mind that he was okay with the life, because Dad had said it was a "good enough" life, and like a wind-up soldier, nothing Sam said would ever get Dean to question it.

He looked out the window. It was snowing. Not hard, but the flakes were big and they reflected the headlights like a reverse Rorschach.

"You won't be able to do much," Sam said. "Dad's the guardian, not you."

Dean took a deep breath. "I can figure out who in her family is best able to take care of the kid. Check them out; make sure they're not pervs or assholes."

"You think Dad's gonna show up?"

Dean's hands tightened on the steering wheel, "I phoned Dad; left a message. Sent another one to Bobby since he knows the guy Dad's hunting with. "

It was all that he could do.

~o0o~

  
Between the weather and the unfamiliar roads, it took them nearly six hours to reach Windom, Minnesota. The snow had gotten steadily worse, heavy enough that the sides of the main highway Dean had chosen for their route were blurry and hard to distinguish from the acres of farmland on either side.

Dean hated snow.

Specifically, he hated what the salt and gravel did to his baby. Every 'ping' and 'snick' was a reminder of how he'd be spending at least some of his spring touching her up, tuning her up, until Dad pronounced the job done right. Not that he minded spending time with the Impala. Dad may have only given it to him last fall after he got his GED, but she'd been his since Dad gave him his own set of keys. He hated paint fumes, though.

"Here." He tossed his cell phone to Sam. "I programmed the guy's number in. Look for Joe Barton's name."

Obediently, Sam opened up Dean's phone and scrolled through the short list of names. There was Dad, of course, though most of the time his number was useless, and there was Jim Murphy, and Caleb, Uncle Bobby and Travis Munroe. It was easy to find the one that didn't belong. He hit the button to dial Barton's number, leaning away when Dean tried to take the phone. "Take care of the driving, Dean. These roads seem slippery."

Actually, Sam had no idea if the roads were slippery or not, but if he got Dean worried about wrecking the car, his brother would stop trying to take the phone.

The phone stopped ringing and a surprisingly mellow voice answered with a short "Barton."

"Joe Barton? This is Sam Winchester, John's younger son?"

"Sam Winchester," Barton repeated. "Dean said you'd be coming along. Too bad about the weather. Driving okay for you guys?

Sam blinked. "Uh, yeah. It's pretty bad out here. But Dean's a good driver." Beside him, Dean muttered something arrogant about his driving that Sam ignored automatically.

"Oh good to hear, you bet. So, when do you think you'll get here?"

"Well, we're in Windom now, coming in off highway 60," Sam said. "How do we find you?"

"Jeez, that was fast. Too fast for the road conditions, I bet." Barton's voice held mild condemnation, but the guy let it drop. Instead, he gave Sam the standard folksy directions (the "turn left when you see Patterson's cow statue" thing instead of street names). Sam dutifully wrote them down, relying on the lights of passing cars to see what he was doing.

"Just ignore the fifteen-minute time limit and park out front," Barton said in his Barry White voice. "Doubt we'll have many people coming in tonight, ya know."

"We should be there in a bit."

"Should be quarter hour tops, depending on your tires," Barton said.

Dean barely waited until Sam was off the phone. "Well? Which way do we go?"

"Keep going until we hit a cow,' Sam replied, and grinned at Dean's expression.

Turned out the cow was as easy to spot as Barton had said. Even with the steadily falling snow, a purple-and-pink statue of a cow that was two-times larger than normal, was easy to spot. The rest of his instructions were just as easy to follow, but it took twenty minutes because Dean wasn't willing to drive too close to the gravel truck that was spitting out rock chips and salt down the main road. Finally, they turned the last corner, drove straight down 'til the road ended, and looked at the only building left before the river.

"The _police_ station?" Dean said in disbelief. "He didn't say anything about being a cop."

"Maybe he figured we'd know?" Sam suggested dubiously. "Besides, it's not like we're doing anything illegal."

"No," Dean agreed, voice filled with sarcasm. "That's why I have a credit card in the name of Lyman Cardanas in my wallet, next to Albert Lamb's driver's license."

Sam just grinned. As the baby, his wallet was spotlessly legal.

They got out of the car, and Sam shivered the instant they hit the sub-zero weather. His winter coat was at least third-hand—once from Goodwill and once from Dean—and it was wearing thin. Their breath puffed out in clouds.

"I keep looking around for the ghost," Dean said in a low voice.

"You too?" Sam asked in surprise.

Dean looked down at him. "Kinda hard not to," he said. "It's trained into me. Like teasing your scrawny ass."

Sam punched him. "You do that because you're a jerk."

"Absolutely not," Dean argued. "I do it because it's a requirement of being an awesome big brother."

"An awesome jerk."

"Bitch, bitch."

They jostled their way through the main doors—Sam losing ground because he was still half a foot shorter than Dean—but when the deputy behind the desk looked up at them and frowned, Sam quieted right down. Unlike Dean, he didn't want to be known as a Bad Boy. Mr. Wyatt, his English teacher at Truman High, had asked him what he wanted to be; did he want to be like his brother and his father. Sam's answer had been "no". It was still no. And part of achieving that was not behaving like a cocky smart-ass in front of authority figures.

So he ignored the warm blush filling his cheeks and nodded at the desk sergeant. He got peered at over little glasses with the security string drooping from the side, and the frown didn't quite go away. In fact, judging from the lines on the guy's face, Sam figured frowning was his normal expression, but it lightened a little.

"Great," Dean muttered, not softly enough. "A twofer cop shop. Wonderful."

The desk sergeant's frown went back to its former depth. Sam sighed and looked around.

It was pretty small for a police station. The desk wasn't even as long as the counter at a Taco Bell. To either side of the lobby were heavy wood doors. The one on the right had "Windom City Police" spelled out in brass letters. The other one said "Cottonwood County Sheriff".

There were signs warning that video of the lobby was recorded for security purposes, and that people entering the precincts could be scanned and their bags searched. There were lists of all the seriously unfriendly things that would happen to them if they tried to smuggle contraband or weapons onto the premises.

Sam swallowed. All he had was an innocuous penknife. It was silver-plated, but it was still easy to explain, but he knew Dean carried a knife in a sheath down his back, and had a smaller blade in an ankle holster.

"Can I help you there, boys?" asked the guy behind the desk. He was an older man dressed in a white, short-sleeved uniform shirt with a sheriff's badge on the pocket. There were creases in the sleeves, razor-sharp and ruler-straight. The deputy's hair was a thick salt-and-pepper cut into a box-cut with creases as rigid as the ones in his sleeves.

"Yeah," Dean answered with a swagger.

"We're here to see Joe Barton?" Sam said, interrupting whatever obnoxious thing Dean was about to say. "I'm Sam Winchester; this is my brother, Dean."

"You're the Winchesters?" he said, surprised. The guy lifted his eyebrows over the top of his granny-glasses, creating a different style of frown.

"That's right," Dean said with an edge of belligerence. "We're the Winchesters. We're here about–"

"I know why you're here," the deputy cut him off. "Windom isn't that big yet, ya know, that we can't keep track of our neighbors."

In other words, the gossip mill was running overtime about Adam and his mother and John.

"Why dontcha boys have a seat over there." He waved at the seating area. "I'll call Deputy Barton and let him know you're here."

Dean might've argued, but Sam caught his eye and lifted a brow. Dean huffed, shoulders rolling in exasperation. Sam jerked his chin at the tiny seating area and wiggled his thumb. Dean thought for a moment and smirked in agreement, sure of victory. So they spent the wait playing thumb wars, and sitting in hard little chairs that were barely better than a Laundromat's.

Dean won, of course.

It was annoying.

"Dean?" Joe Barton's voice was unmistakable. Joe Barton was thin, if the stick-like neck emerging from the puffy fleece-and-down jacket was any indication. He also had heavy-framed thick glasses and a beard shadow that added two tones to his already swarthy skin. He still looked like a kid playing dress-up.

Dean let go of Sam's thumb. "Yeah, that's me."

The deputy held out his hand to shake Dean's, like Dean didn't look like a delinquent with his greaser hair and leather jacket. Dean only hesitated briefly before taking it.

"Glad to see you made in spite of the weather," Barton said. "And quickly, too. You must be some good driver." Dean shrugged off the compliment, but allowed himself to be lured into talking about driving a heavy old rear-wheel drive in fresh snow for a moment or two.

"All these new-fangled front-wheel drives… It takes some getting used to steer out of a slide, now." Then he said, without taking a breath or changing inflection, "Graham, I'm taking them in."

"You're going to run them through the detector?" asked Deputy Graham from behind the desk.

Graham the Grumpy Deputy—it suited him, Sam thought. That was when Sam realized that he was both tired and really hungry.

"Yah, no," Barton replied. "I'm sure it'll be good."

Whatever response Deputy Grumpy might have made was lost under the "whoosh" as the heavy door opened into the county sheriff's office. They walked through and were faced with a metal detector. Deputy Barton waved his card to deactivate it.

"So, Joe," Dean said with an alarmingly unsubtle smile, as he walked through the device. "What other family does Adam have?"

"Family?"

"Yeah, aunts, uncles, cousins," Dean elaborated. "He has to have some."

"Oh, for sure. He has grandparents, but Kate's father had a stroke a couple years back, and Jessie's showing signs of Alzheimer's, the poor thing," he answered.

"That's too bad," Dean said, managing to almost sound sincere. "What about sisters or brothers?"

"Lem's in the service, ya know. Stationed overseas," Joe replied, leading them down a plain corridor and past closed doors. "And before you ask, he's unmarried. If there'd been anyone else, I never woulda dragged you and your brother up here. Not in this weather. Jeez no."

Dean grimaced—busted! Sam shot him a rueful look and he tipped his head in a shrug. "It's just that what we do," Dean explained. "The way we live, it isn't a good environment for a kid. Ask Sam. He can give dissertations on the subject."

Sam elbowed him in the ribs. He may complain about it to Dean or Dad, but that didn't mean he told other people about it.

Barton had stopped in front of a plain door, with a small window. He had a hand on the knob, but he didn't run his keycard through the reader. Instead, he waited and listened to all the reasons why they couldn't, they shouldn't, take Adam with them. He nodded and said "You betcha" at the right moments.

Light from overhead whited out his lenses so that Sam couldn't see his eyes. He couldn't tell if the deputy was really listening or just playing along as Dean wound down. At the end, all Deputy Joe said was, "If it's not you, it's an orphanage, or worse. Now, the state'll do their best—I'm not saying they won't—but he'll still be one among thousands, for sure. So dontcha think half-assed family's better 'n no family t'all?"

And Sam knew Dean had lost.

They were about to adopt a little brother.

"We share interview rooms and showers with the city cops," Barton said in his deep voice as he swiped open the door. "The jail's here, too, ya know, and it works pretty well. Saves both the county and the city a buncha money."

They walked into the small bullpen, which consisted of all of four desks, each with computer monitor and telephone. A female officer sat at one of the desks speaking into a headset. Talking to one of the cops on patrol, Dean realized.

Three of the desks looked like working desks, with binders, Kleenex, coffee cups, and notepads scattered across their surfaces. The fourth was mostly bare, and that was where a little boy sat, drawing pictures on white copy paper using crayons from a big, new box. He had floppy, sandy-colored hair, and pink, pudgy cheeks.  


  
"Jesus," Dean breathed. The kid looked like Sammy at that age.

"Dean, Sam, I'd like for you to meet Lisa Sharpe," Barton said, and pulled Dean's attention from the little Sammy-clone. "She's Adam's case worker."

"She" was as round and short as Joe Barton was tall and thin, light to his dark, but where he was gawky and casual, she was buttoned-up and stern. There was a look in her eye that didn't bode well for ne'er-do-wells and rogues, and from the comprehensive examination she gave him, Dean figured she'd put him on that list.

"Call me Ms. Sharpe," she said. "Easier to remain professional using last names."

" _Miz_ Sharpe." He smiled as he shook her hand, his bland 'not looking for anything' smile. "Call me Dean."

"Mr. Winchester," she emphasized.

Dean's eyes narrowed: was this lady for real?

"If you don't mind me asking, but how old are you?"

"Nineteen," Dean could feel himself tightening defensively. He _hated_ this shit. Yeah, he was born nineteen years ago, but he hadn't been just his physical age since he was four. "But don't let the package fool you, lady. I've got what it takes."

Miz Sharpe gave him another all-over look, taking in his scuffed biker boots and the ripped jeans, the layered shirts. Her eyes paused on his amulet before examining his face—lips, cheeks, eyes, and hair. Unlike a lot of older women when they looked at him so closely, there wasn't the smallest hint of interest in her gaze.

"So we need to talk," she said to Deputy Joe.

"Now, Lisa. Don't be like that." Joe protested, but Miz Sharpe marched off to the far side of the office and into a small glass-walled room. She stood there, holding the door open, and stared at the deputy.

"You know her?" Sam asked.

"Windom's a small place. Everybody knows everybody here," Joe said before following the social worker.

Sam looked at Dean, but Dean had noticed: Barton hadn't looked at them when he'd said it, and he'd blushed, which meant he wasn't telling them everything, and _that_ meant they needed to be in that room with the two of them. No way should Deputy Do-Right and Miz Sharpe be talking about him and Sam without them present.

He pushed Sammy ahead of him because most people couldn't resist the eyes and floppy hair. Miz Sharpe was no exception. She glared at them a moment, and then ignored them in favor of ripping into Barton.

"What are you thinking, Deputy Barton?" she said, almost before the door finished closing. She gave Dean a short, dismissive glance before turning back to her original target. "No offense, but they're kids. You can't really expect me to hand Adam over into his care?"

It didn't take Sammy's pinch for Dean to know to keep his mouth shut.

"It'll just be temporary," Barton replied. "Until the father shows up, ya know." This time it was Dean's turn to squeeze Sam's forearm until the princess kept his snorts to himself.

"Oh gee, yah. That'll be so much better," she said with a skeptical lift of an eyebrow. "And when's that going to be?"

Dean got another squeeze in on Sammy before he answered her. "I called the company's head office–" meaning Bobby Singer "–and asked them to take a message out to the camp" –meaning see if he could raise anyone on the CB.

"They have to get someone to drive it in," said Sam, picking up his cue like a pro.

Miz Sharpe's eyebrow stayed up, and she added strong-looking hands on hips to her stance. Like Wonder Woman, Dean thought, without the whip or the cleavage. "And so that translates to how long?"

"A week, maybe," Dean supplied.

"A week." Her voice dripped delicate contempt. "Maybe. _If_ your father is more reliable than a couple teenagers."

"Jeez, Lisa," Barton protested. "It's just a week, whatever. Even if they sometimes forget to feed him, he won't starve to death, ya know."

"Dontchu _dare_ joke about that, Joseph Connor Barton!"

Dean knew his own eyebrows had gone up in surprise. She'd used all three names on the dude, which meant she was seriously pissed. It also meant they were on a better than last name basis. Or had been.

"Dang! Sorry, sorry. I forgot," Barton apologized, but even Dean knew it was a crap apology and wouldn't win him any points. Barton's wince said he knew it, too.

"You forgot." _Miz_ Sharpe's disdain was now covered in ice. And claws. "Typical of you, Deputy Barton."

"Lisa, honey, I explained that to you, plenty of times." The guy was practically begging… in a laconic, monotone sort of way.

Miz Sharpe sneered without moving her lips. "Oh yah, sudden break in the case," she replied. "But, according to Sheriff Dowd, there was no break."

"I didn't have a chance to call him," Joe tried to explain.

"Sure, uh-huh. Like you didn't get a chance to call _me_." Only the tightly clipped enunciation indicated how pissed she was.

"Listen, _Miz_ Sharpe," Dean said, breaking into their little soap opera moment. "Just because the deputy here forgot a date –"

"It wasn't a _date_ ," she snapped. "It was our _wedding_."

Oh.

Dean turned to look incredulously at Deputy Joe. "You missed the wedding?"

Barton shrugged. "I had to get your father to the hospital."

"He _claimed_ he'd been hunting ghouls. _Ghouls!_ " she spat. Barton shuffled his weight and pushed up his glasses.

Again, Dean stared at the deputy. "You told her you were out hunting ghouls?"

Deputy Joe shrugged and looked even more embarrassed. "It probably wasn't my finest bit of thinking."

Dean barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the idiot. "Ya _think?_ "

"So you can see, Mr. _Dean_ Winchester, son of _John_ Winchester, why I'm not exactly willing to accept Deputy Barton's assessment of your character."

"Jeez, Lisa, c'mon," Joe protested. "Whatever history's between us, these boys are not a part of it. So don't go and punish them just because I'm asking you to consider something a little outside the rules."

"A _little_?" She gave a short laugh. "He is not Adam's father, ya know. He isn't even his father's authorized agent," she said. "He has no more legal authority here than some person off the street."

"They're brothers," Joe protested.

She snorted. "Sure, they may share some genetic coding, but that doesn't mean he'll actually take care of Adam, ya know."

"Dean knows how to look after kids," Sam interrupted. "Our dad's been a single parent for a long time, so when I was little, he was usually working after school and stuff. Dean took care of me. He still does."

Dean tried to look like Sam's words hadn't surprised him, or touched him, or made him feel embarrassed and warm. "I, uh, just did what I had to," he said, clenching his hands into fists in his jacket pockets, and resisted the urge to scuff his feet. "I think Sammy turned out okay."

Miz Sharpe turned her laser eyes to Sammy and looked him up and down. Clean clothes, lightly mended; hair floppy, but clean; beanpole body—all-in-all healthy looking.

"He even came to school and made arrangements to move the rest of my final exams to Thursday."

"Yeah, and it wasn't easy," Dean said. "So if you could just hand over Adam, we'll be heading back tomorrow and he'll be out of your hair."

Her stare shifted back to Dean. "I'm not sure I'm understanding you," she said. "If you think you can take Adam out of Windom then you're mistaken."

"But I have finals," Sam protested.

"On Thursday," Dean added. "And if I don't have Sam back for them, Ms. Strahovski's going to have my balls for dinner."

"Yah, I'm sure they'd be more of an appetizer," she shot back. Dean's eyes narrowed.

This time Sam kicked him to shut him up. Dean glared at him before turning back to the ball-buster. "I need to take Sam back to Lincoln for his finals. We'll take Adam with us, be back in three days. How's that? That's being a good parent, right? Balancing responsibilities."

"Not a chance," said Miz Sharpe. Barton opened his mouth but Miz Sharpe lifted a finger to stop whatever he was going to say. "I won't budge on this, Joe. There are four dead children out there."

"Oh, come _on_!" Dean protested. "It's two frigging days, lady, not 'til the end of time. We drive to Lincoln. Sam takes his tests—tests that are important to him. Meaning, he'll be beyond upset if he misses them, and then we drive back here to… do whatever we have to do for Adam."

"Four dead kids," she repeated. "Three of them were in the system; _two_ were part of my case load."

Dean's face hardened. "We are not frigging _axe_ murderers," he growled. He wanted to step forward, into the bitch's space, push the issue until she surrendered. Only Barton's raised hands, kept Dean and the ex-fiancée apart.

"Now, just hold back, there. She knows you didn't have anything to do with those deaths, because they may have been freaky, you bet, but they weren't homicides–"

"Joe! Gosh darn it," she interrupted. "I am not suggesting that these boys had anything to do with the death of those children. I'm just saying that he's too young to have that kind of responsibility." She glanced at Dean and threw an off-hand "no offense" at him.

"And yet, I'm offended," Dean said deliberately.

Deputy Joe raised his hands and waved them in a vaguely placating manner. "No need for that now. Lisa's just being overly cautious and you can't blame her for that, ya know."

Beside him, Sam snorted quietly. Dean knew why his brother had laughed, knew how he'd earned it. Didn't mean he didn't feel like punching something (or someone) for suggesting he couldn't, or wouldn't, look after a kid properly.

"Maybe I don't like to be judged by some prissy chick in a power suit," Dean snarled. "Not everyone in a leather coat is a bad guy."

"So you say. _I_ say, why take chances?" she snapped right back, fake smile firmly in place.

"Come on now, you two. Just settle down." Joe held up his hands. "Besides, the final decision isn't yours to make, Lisa. It's mine. Kate gave me full powers in her will and the will allows for vacations, which are usually two weeks. Three days is completely acceptable."

"Thank Christ," Dean muttered.

"Joe Barton!"

Deputy Joe was still waving his hands. "We'll get a full itinerary, contact names and phone numbers," he said to his ex-fiancée. "They'll check in when they get there and when they're about to come back, won't you, boys?"

Dean ground his teeth together and nodded like a good boy. Sam made his eyes the widest they would go and nodded along with him.

"Okeydokey," said Deputy Joe. "So that's all settled, right and tight."

"For sure," Miz Sharpe said with a wide, fake smile. "I'll just go talk to Adam; get him ready to meet you."

Her boot heels clicked a pissed-off staccato on the linoleum floor.

Dean waited until she was through the door. "You were _engaged_ to her?"

Joe smiled. "Oh yah. She's a fine woman, and a good person, you bet.

Dean wasn't the most sensitive of guys, but even he knew that saying Deputy Joe could do better than that hard-assed shark would be crossing the line. So he just nodded, and made a noise that Barton could interpret however he liked. He ran a ragged part through his hair with his fingers; it had been a long, frigging day, and it wasn't over yet. He could use a pot of coffee—the whole pot. However, first things first.

"We'll need someplace to stay. Someplace nice," he clarified, "but not too expensive."

"Oh, you'll be staying at Adam's," Joe said with a small frown. "It's one of the reasons he can't leave. Or at least why he shouldn't leave, ya know."

"No, I don't… What are you talking about?"

"The terms of his mother's will state that Adam is not to be uprooted," the cop said. "As long as you guys stay in Windom with Adam, the house is his, but take him away for longer than a vacation, and the house gets sold and the proceeds go into a trust fund."

"Adam's got a house?" Dean asked stupidly.

"You betcha," Joe answered with a smile. "For sure, Adam's got a house."

Dean looked at Sam because when he'd heard Dad had gotten some lady pregnant, he'd pictured a waitress or a hotel maid—someone who lived like them. Having a house meant Kate Milligan had been a couple steps up on the socio-economic ladder and chicks like that tended to stay away from rough-edged guys like him and Dad.

Maybe it was a trailer. An old double-wide in a trailer part somewhere. That would make more sense.

Sam had leaned forward, eyes wide, all traces of sulk gone. "Is it a big house? With a yard?" he asked.

"Oh sure, it's a big house," Joe interrupted the brewing argument. "And it's got a yard."

"Cool," breathed Sam, and Dean could see his brother's dream of 'being normal' sparking behind his hazel eyes.

"We have to talk to Dad first," Dean said in warning.

"Oh hey, yah. Talking about your father. Is he really likely to make it in a week?" the deputy asked.

Dean and Sam shrugged. "It depends on when he gets the message," Dean said. "Cell phone coverage ain't exactly great where he is."

"And what he's hunting," Sam added.

"Huh," Joe said then stopped. He glanced through the glass wall to where his ex-fiancée was crouching next to Adam. "Well, if it's not too much trouble, how about we don't mention any of that to Lisa? I'm still hoping to convince her to give me a second chance."

"Dude, it's been seven years!"

Joe just smiled. "Ya, I know, but… some things are worth fighting for." He walked out of the little room and all Dean could do was stare after him.

"It must be nice to know what you want, like that." Sam said.

Maybe it was nice, Dean conceded. It was also freaking bizarre. "Come on," Dean said instead of anything else. "Let's go meet our new homeboy."

"Please, Dean. Do _not_ start with the gangsta talk," Sam pleaded with a roll of his eyes.

"What? I totally rock it," Dean said, leading the way back into the tiny bullpen.

"You totally don't," Sam argued. "Besides, aren't you the one who said chicks don't dig that kind of talk?"

Dean snorted. "I was lying when I said that."

"Whatever." The Eye-Roll of Disgust was getting a good work out tonight, Dean noticed. He managed to not respond in kind, since he was supposed to be a Responsible Young Man and they were close enough to Miz Sharpe for her to notice. She looked up as they approached. "Adam," she said. "Adam, these are the boys Deputy Barton was telling you about. Do you remember what he said?"

"Unka Joe said they were my brothers. Older brothers." Large hazel eyes that reminded Dean so much of Sam's gazed at them in an assessment that wasn't any less complete than Miz Sharpe's had been. It was a lot less judgmental though.

"My friend Will has big brothers, but they're not as old as you. How come you're so old?" Adam asked Dean.

Sam turned his head and laughed into his sleeve. He wasn't going to let Dean forget that one any time soon.

Dean ignored him and talked to Adam. "Because Dad—our father—was a lot younger when he had us."

Adam didn't say anything, just stared up at Dean, chewing on his lip. Sam waited for the next gem to come from the kid's mouth.

"I don't have a dad."

"For sure you do, Adam," said Joe. "It's just that him and your mom never lived together, ya know."

"I thought mom and dads had to live together," Adam said, confused.

"Oh, it's different," Deputy Joe answered lamely.

Adam didn't hear him anyway. "Didn't he like Mom? Or maybe he didn't like me. Tom Maker at school doesn't like me. I don't know why."

Joe shot them an embarrassed look and seemed at a loss for words. Miz Sharpe looked disgusted. She opened her mouth to say something, but Dean beat her to it.

"Listen, kid. I'm sure Dad liked your mom just fine," he said firmly. "In fact, you wouldn't be here if he'd disliked her. But he was probably long gone out of town by the time your mom knew she was pregnant with you, and as far as I know, your mom never told him." He looked to Joe, and the cop nodded his head. "Yeah, your mom never told Dad that you were in the works, so his not being around has got nothing to do with you. It's not your fault; you couldn't've done anything about it. You understand?"

The kid—their _brother_ —looked up at Dean with those wide, hazel eyes. His mouth—Dean's mouth—hung open as he thought.

"Why didn't Mom tell him?" Adam finally asked.

Dean laughed. "Kid, if we had a dollar for every time our parents did something weird, we'd all be rich."

Sam looked at Ms. Sharpe. She was still crouched beside Adam, and she was looking at Dean. Sam saw puzzled surprise on her face instead of the cold look she'd been wearing from the minute she first saw Dean.

Hah! She hadn't expected this. Nobody expected Dean to be good with kids. Hell, _Dean_ didn't expect it.

Sam had never understood how Dean did it. He acted like such a macho asshole most of the time. Scared adults made him sneer. Scared teenagers made him impatient (unless they were female and pretty, then Dean turned into an opportunistic sleaze) but put him around a scared or upset kid and the guy turned golden. Yet, as far as Dean was concerned, he didn't like kids, and didn't know anything about how to deal with them.

Talk about self-delusions.

Or maybe he thought it was too "girly", Dean's standard go-to reason for rejecting anything he thought didn't suit his hunter image—which was the same as Dad's ex-Marine image, and therefore completely unreasonable, Sam fumed.

"Is it okay if we come live with you for a while?" Dean asked. "I hear you got a big house."

Adam looked down and away. He picked up the crayon and rolled it around his fingers. "It's really empty," the kid said. "It doesn't sound right, because it's empty, and it's empty because Mom's dead." Adam looked up at Dean, eyes even bigger than before, and shimmering with unshed tears. "I don't want Mom to be dead."

Sam saw all Dean's bullshit resentment fall away as big fat tears rolled over Adam's cheeks. He reached out and plucked Adam from the chair to hold him close. "Aw, kid," he murmured. "Nobody wants their mom to be dead. It sucks, and it never stops sucking. You just gotta remember that she loved you, and she didn't want to leave you."

Adam's arms were vise grips around Dean's neck, and the little boy was sobbing his guts out. Sam's macho asshole brother rocked the kid back-and-forth, and ran a soothing hand down his back, humming something by Metallica low and off-key.

Sam snuck a look at Ms. Sharpe. Her mouth was open in shock.

"Told you he's good with kids," Sam said smugly.


	3. He Is Your Brother

Joe guided them to a little diner that was still open, so they could grab some dinner. It wasn't fancy, but it was good, in fact better than most. Sam enjoyed his roast beef and mashed potatoes just fine, and Dean moaned around the hamburger, so it had to be okay, but Adam picked at his chicken fingers. At least until Dean started stealing his fries to dip in Sam's gravy. Then Adam stole _Dean's_ fries. And dipped them in Sam's gravy.

Sam looked down at the meager remains of his gravy. "You could've just ordered your own," he pointed out.

Dean smiled at him. "That wouldn't have been any fun; would it, kid?" Adam just giggled.

By the time they left the diner, Adam had eaten everything.

They followed Deputy Joe's SUV to Adam's quiet neighborhood. Large two-story houses lined the street; older houses, with porches and gingerbread accents. The snow was a foot thick, but a path had been cleared to the front steps. Adam was half-asleep, so Dean picked him up and carried him like it was no big deal. Sam couldn't help but shake his head at his brother: the douche was such a marshmallow when it came to kids. Then the wind gusted and ran through Sam's coat. He grabbed the duffel bags, and followed the others up to the door.

"So this is Adam's house; Kate left it to him," Joe was saying. "There's a detached garage around back, but you'll have to shovel out the drive." He held out a set of keys. "Just so you know, I've got a second set," he'd said. "As executor, I'm allowed access."

"Surprise inspections?" Dean asked.

Joe had nodded sheepishly. "Uh, yah, you bet. Make sure you're not leaving him locked in the basement, ya know."

Considering that Dean was letting Adam drool on his precious leather coat, it was a ridiculous statement.

_Plus_ , Dean had let Adam grab his hand on the way to the diner. Oh, Dean had huffed and made snarky comments, but he hadn't said no, and he hadn't let go. Just like he'd never let go of Sam's hand when Sam had needed to hold on.

That was years ago, of course. These days Dean was more likely to give him a head-lock than a hug, but watching him with Adam had reminded him that it hadn't always been that way. It was weird seeing Dean like that again. It was as if Sam was being given a glimpse into his own history, bringing forward all these memories of when Dean had been his whole world and his favorite's hero. So when Adam had reached for Sam's hand in the backseat of the car, Sam had taken it. Just like Dean would've done—had done when it was Sam's hand.

The first thing they did, after putting their food in the oven to keep warm and making coffee, was go on a tour. Joe had walked them around, showing them electrical panels and tornado bunkers, pointing out the drain that always backed up and the window that they couldn't seal properly. He also pointed out the architectural features that made this house unique. Sam looked and listened as if he would be tested on it before dinner.

It was as big as Sam had hoped. It had four bedrooms upstairs. _Four_. Sure, one was the size of a closet and was even being used as one, but it could conceivably hold a bed and a small desk. They could each have their own room. No more sharing with Dean and listening to him fart, jerk off, or snore—sometimes all three at the same time.

Dean made fun of him. He didn't care. Even ignoring the _four_ freaking _bedrooms,_ the place was great. All the rooms on the main floor connected to each other by archways or through pocket doors. It had molded ceilings, wood floors, and every window on the first floor had a colored glass design in it like a church. Sam couldn't wait until he could see the light coming through them. It was cool.

Sam got caught up in the idea that this time, maybe, John would be forced to stop moving them. He'd have to stay. John couldn't sell the house, so they might as well settle down, right?

"Hey, squirt, look after the munchkin," Dean said after seeing Joe off. "I'm gonna grab supplies out of the Impala, and do the windows."

Sam shrugged. "Sure. I'll study for the tests I'll be taking in _two days_. I _am_ going to be taking them, right?" Dean waved his middle finger over his shoulder as he walked out to the car.

Sam was torn between huffing in annoyance at Dean's non-answer, or relaxing and taking it for granted that Dean would get him back to Lincoln in time. His brother might be a big pain in the ass, but he'd always tried to keep the promises he'd made to Sam.

Wouldn't stop Sam from nagging, though.

Adam was looking at him and chewing on his fingers.

"What do you want to do?" he asked. Adam shrugged. "I saw you drawing in Sheriff's office, and at the diner. You seemed to enjoy it. You want to draw some more?" Adam shrugged again, but he also gave Sam his backpack. Sam opened it, and it was filled with crayons and paper, and kid-safe scissors. He put out the crayons and some paper, and let the kid draw whatever as he reviewed his notes, rereading the textbook and rewriting his notes, fixing the data in his mind.

"Whatcha doing?" Adam asked putting aside another stick-figure drawing.

"Studying," Sam replied. "For a test."

"I have a test," Adam said. "On my ABC words. I know all of them," Wanna hear?" he said without pause. "A-apple; a-p-p-l-e, B-brother; b-o-t-h-e-r–"

"B- _R_ -o-t-h-e-r," Sam corrects. "But, y'know: brother, bother—same dif." Adam didn't laugh, didn't even smile. He just looked at Sam with wide, scared eyes before his gaze slid away to the side of the room. It made Sam feel bad. He stretched his neck to catch Adam's eyes. "What's your C-word?" he asked.

"Cowboy?" Adam said tentatively.

"Cowboys are cool," Sam said with a hearty smile. "You know how to spell it?"

He encouraged Adam when he started slow, but soon his little brother was spelling happily. "K-kitten; k-i-t-t-e-n. L-little: l-i-t-t-l-e. M…"

It was a bit distracting, but Sam let Adam continue right to the end because he had the nagging sensation that this was what big brothers did. Probably because this is what Dean had done, he realized as a memory flashed of him and Dean doing this—reciting their words to each other. It was… kind of odd to be the big brother, but kind of cool, too. So he listened, and he occasionally corrected Adam's spelling, but the kid was pretty smart. Besides, it was a wash of sound no different from listening to Dean and Dad talking in the front seat, and way better than Dean's usual Greatest Hits of Mullet Rock.

Of course, that's when Dean turned the radio on.

"Okay," Dean said as he walked into the kitchen. "That's all the entrances done. There are a _lot_ of windows in this place."

"Cool," Sam said, barely looking up from his textbook, until he remembered; "Dean, I think Adam might have school tomorrow."

Dean looked at their new brother. "Is that right? Kid, you got school tomorrow?"

There was a small shrug. Adam was back to coloring his pictures.

"How old are you?" Dean asked. He was leaning against the counter drinking the last of the dinner coffee. It smelled rank, old and over-cooked, but Dean didn't seem to care. "Kid. How old are you?" he repeated.

"Seven," Adam answered.

"Seven," Dean said. "Right, so you're in second grade." Another one-shoulder shrug. "He's probably out of school because of the thing with his mom," Dean told Sam. "But I'll call tomorrow and check."

"Okay, cool," Sam responded, relieved to have it taken care of.

"But that means, littlest hobro, that it's your bedtime." Dean swooped down on Adam and tossed him onto his shoulder, and tickled him. Adam, after an initial shriek, started giggling.

"Dude, you can't call our brother a ho," Sam felt compelled to point out.

"I didn't. It was 'hobro'. You know, like that show, _The Littlest Hobo_ , but with 'bro' instead of 'bo'."

"Yeah, Dean. I _did_ get the reference," Sam said. "But it still came out sounding like you were calling him a 'ho'."

"That's a bad thing, right?" Dean asked, and Sam barely refrained from banging his head against the desk.

"This is why guys who grew up in small towns in the Midwest, and who don't listen to anything recorded later than 1980, shouldn't try to talk Gangsta," he muttered loud enough to earn a whack on the back of the head. Sam sat up and glared at his big brother. "Yes, Dean. It's a very bad thing. Trust me."

Dean looked at him a moment then shrugged and Sam knew he'd won.

"Well, whatever," Dean said finally said. "So I'm going to take Cabbage Patch up to his room, tuck him in, and all that shit. Then I'm going to turn in, too. What room d'you want?"

"Uh…" What room did Sam want? He could pick Adam's mom's room, with its big bed, lots of space, and feel like an intruder sleeping on a dead woman's bed, or he could take the small and impersonal guest room that had a closet full of what looked like Christmas decorations.

"I'll take the guest room."

"Okay, cool," Dean agreed. "G'night, little bro."

Sam continued to study, making sure to go over the section on DNA and cell structure a couple time—all those plast-y things were confusing. He could hear the water running upstairs, filling the tub for Adam's bath, and he had a clear picture of Dean, maybe Adam's age, maybe a bit younger, putting his wrist under the water and frowning as he adjusted the taps and tested it again. _"Don't want it too hot, Sammy. Your skin's so tender, you'll screech for sure."_

" _Won't,"_ he'd said with a pout.

He'd been sitting on the toilet seat, he remembered, covered in mud from a puddle he'd found beside the motel. Dean had put water in the tub, but it had turned practically to sludge the moment Sam got in. Dean had let the water out, and filled it again, letting Sam shiver at the far end while Dean tried to force all the mud clumps down the drain. In the end, Dean had given up on the bath idea. He'd stripped gotten into the tub with Sam, and Sam had had his first shower. It had tickled and he'd loved it. He'd preferred showers ever since.

Weird the way memories worked, he thought. The brain was only a mass of interconnected cells powered by electricity just like every other bit of the body, yet it could take something random—like hearing a tub fill—and produce a sense memory so strong he could still remember the scent of the shampoo (bubble gum).

He carefully marked his place in the textbook, putting his pens and pencils back in the case while he mentally ran over the animal classification system. He kept them in his mind as he put the dirty dishes on the counter, and the leftover snacks into the fridge. It was when he tidied up Adam's stuff that he snapped out of his study fog.

The pictures were what he'd expect of a seven-year-old: stick figures with some attempt at adding details. There was Joe Barton, recognizable because of his wide brimmed deputy's hat and his glasses. There was Adam in a blue T-shirt. They were at the police station because Adam had tried to draw the bullpen. All that was cool, but in the back, nearly hidden, was a figure done in grey. It had a potbelly and its eyes were black pits, and he could just see its blood-red irises.

The creature was in the picture Adam had drawn of the Impala, too. There was Dean in his leather coat, holding onto Adam's hand. There was the snow coming down. And over to the side, was the pot-bellied kid with the coal-black eyes.

For some reason, the image was reminding him of something, but the memory wouldn't come loose. That mouth, gaping, open, ready to draw in someone's spirit…

He shivered hard enough to rattle the paper.

Sam picked up Adam's backpack, and looked inside. It held the drawings Adam had made at the station and more. There were more than a dozen drawings and the potbellied creature was in nearly every one. Never at the front, never as big as the other people, but it was always there.

The more Sam looked at it, the more it seemed to be staring at Adam.

He shivered as a wave of cold washed over him.

Upstairs the tub was draining.

He went upstairs to find his big brother.

~o0o~

  
Bathing Adam was a trip, Dean decided. He was so freaking _tiny_.

Dean didn't remember Sam being so small, but of course, he'd been a lot smaller, too, when he'd bathed his brother—his real brother.

Not that he could deny that Adam was related. He looked so freaking much like Sam had, but it didn't seem real yet. It didn't seem right that there was a Winchester that was John's but not Mary's.

Still, the kid's attitude was the same as Sam's had been. He was absolutely sure he could bathe himself. From scrubbing his skin with a funny plastic scrubby thing to washing his own hair, Adam could do it. Just like Sammy, and just like Sammy Adam couldn't get his hands around the shampoo bottle. And he couldn't wash his back, obviously.

After too many minutes watching the kid twisting to get between his shoulder blades and falling over when he got unbalanced, Dean shrugged out of his long-sleeved shirts and knelt beside the tub. The water was cooling down fast—he'd have to remember to let it run hotter next time—so he grabbed a cloth and started running it over the kid's back.

Turned out, the kid had the most sensitive back in creation. Every stroke, every touch, had him writhing and twitching. Adam's giggled "Noooo" was the most hilarious thing Dean had heard in a long time.

Of course, Dean couldn't stop, not after discovering Adam's weakness.

Adam, the feisty little shit, threw the plastic scrub ball at him. The water sprayed all over the bathroom, with water landing on the toilet, the floor, even the toilet paper, but the thing hit Dean right in the chest.

"Oh, is _that_ how it is?" Dean said. His eyes narrowed at the kid's laughter. "You're on, sucker." He stretched out his fingers, ready to find every ticklish spot the kid had, Adam shrieked and giggled and splashed him some more. By the end of it, Dean wasn't sure he even needed a shower now. He was certainly wet enough.

The kid didn't look sad anymore, though, so that was good.

Dean opened the drain, grabbed a clean towel, and wrapped the kid up. The towel was huge, he noticed, which was a change from the tiny ones motels and hotels usually put out. This gig was looking up.

Not that they could stay, of course. Or at least, it would be up to Dad.

Dean refused to speculate on what his father's reaction would be. _'No point in anticipating what people will do, son,"_ he heard Jim Murphy say. _"Six times out of ten, they'll do something that makes absolutely no sense to you."_

Hey, he thought. They were in Minnesota! That meant Pastor Jim was practically a neighbor. If they stayed, they could drive over for a visit. Or even if they didn't, Dean supposed.

He pulled Adam's little step stool over to the sink just as Sam appeared in the doorway.

"Dean, Can I see you for a sec?" Sam's voice was quiet, and kind of serious.

Dean did a quick check to make sure the kid was secure on his stool, and safely brushing his teeth, before he stepped into the hall. "What's up?"

Sam handed him some pictures.

"Did you do these, princess?" Dean teased Sam automatically. "Am I supposed to tell you how awesome they are?"

"Don't be a shit-head," Sam replied. "Do you know what that is?" His finger tapped at a creepy grey kid that was everywhere.

Dean went through the pictures again. "Imagination?" Dean theorized.

"Adam doesn't draw imaginary stuff. There are no unicorns, spaceships, or cowboys," Sam countered. "Every picture he drew was of real people in real places." He tapped the grey thing again. "Except that. I didn't see that at the police station, did you?"

Dean frowned because he hadn't seen it, and he was good at seeing supernatural shit. He knew how to see it because he _looked_ for it wherever he went. It was his freaking _job_. But he hadn't seen any potbellied thing hanging out anywhere near them.

"It doesn't look familiar," Dean said. "And it sure as shit doesn't look friendly. Think it's targeting Adam?"

Sam shrugged. "That's what it looks like to me. Ms. Sharpe said something about kids dying," Sam went on. "Four of them so far, right?"

Dean thought back. "Yeah, and she got upset when Joe made jokes about us not being able to starve Adam in a week."

"Which means there was something weird about their deaths," Sam concluded. "Starved to death in a house full of food, maybe? I don't know about you, but that thing looks hungry."

"Fuck. We need Dad's journal," Dean muttered. "We need Dad."

Sam scoffed, but lightly. "We need to talk to Adam," Sam said. "Then we need to talked to Joe, find out some details of those kids' deaths. We don't need Dad."

"Don't be stupid, Sam. Dad knows a lot about this stuff. He'd probably recognize this thing right away."

Sam's jaw slowly relaxed. "Yeah, maybe," he finally conceded. "But he's not here, so we'll have to figure this out ourselves."

It was true. Dad wasn't here, wasn't even reachable. They needed another source of information. "Pastor Jim's just up the street, kinda," Dean said. "I was figuring, before we take off, and if the weather's cleared, we'd run over to Blue Earth, and, you know, _visit_. Kinda like normal people do."

"You wanna bring him in on this?" Sam asked.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, hoping, despite past evidence, that some brilliant idea would be jarred loose. Jim was a friend, but the last time he and Dad got together Jim said something or did something to piss John Winchester off. Which, Dean was forced to admit, wasn't difficult. Dad might not appreciate that they'd called in somebody he was fighting with.

On the other hand, Dad was at odds with a minimum of half the people they knew at any given time, and if something really _was_ targeting kids there was no way Dean could let that wait until Dad showed up.

"Yeah, I think we're going to have to," Dean finally said. He looked at his watch. It was nearly ten and the pastor, despite being a hunter, was an advocate of 'early to bed, early to rise' philosophy of life. Jim would wake up to take the call—neither of his callings kept regular hours—or Dean could call him tomorrow morning. They'd maybe know more by then; they might even manage to catch a glimpse of the thing.

"Here," he decided. "Why don't you finish putting the munchkin to bed, and I'll call Deputy Joe."

"Aaah, no," Sam shook his head. "I don't think that's going to work."

That's when Dean felt the tugging at his shirt. He looked down to see Sam's hazel eyes looking up at him. The shape was a little wrong, but the expression was pure 'Sam wants something he doesn't think he's going to get'.

"Can you read me a story?"

"Look, kid –"

"Sure he can," Sam said. "His favorite is _Green Eggs and Ham_. Do you have that one?"

Adam nodded, using his whole body. "Uh huh."

"Sam," Dean protested.

"Cool," Sam said smiling up at Dean. "Then he can spend hours telling you all about Sam-I-Am, and the stupid sh-stuff he did. Just like he did with me."

"Sam!" Dean huffed out a breath. "I am not reading _Green Eggs and Ham_ to Adam." That was Sam's book. He only ever read it to Sam.

"I like _One Fish, Two Fish_ more," the kid said. "I c'n read it, too. Most of it."

Dean had heard the name, of course, but it wasn't a Dr. Seuss book that they'd ever got hold of. Whatever. He could let the kid read it to him.

"Wait," Sam said abruptly. "Before you go, can you tell me what this thing is?" He tried to sound casual as he pointed at the potbellied creature.

Adam looked at him, straight at him, before his eyes slid to the side and he shrugged.

"Is it a kind of pig?" Sam pressed. "It looks like a pig, one of those miniature ones. Or maybe a dog?"

Again, Adam wouldn't look at him as he shrugged. "Maybe."

"Is it a friend? Like, um…" Sam tried to remember that big imaginary mammoth thing from Sesame Street. "Like Big Bird's friend?"

"Snuffleupagus," Dean supplied. When Sam stared at him, he forced down the blush. "I gotta lot time to waste when you're at school."

Sam turned back to Adam. "Is it like the snuffleupagus; only certain people can see it? It's very important, Adam. If you know anything, you have to tell us."

Adam just stared at him.

Dean could see Sam's temper starting to rise. Adam was already backed right into Dean. If Sam yelled at him, the kid wouldn't speak for a week. So he took the pictures from Sam and crouched down in front of Adam. "Hey, kid," he said in normal tones. "You're not in trouble or anything, so don't freak out. We just want to know what this is." He tapped a finger against the grey thing.

Adam's eyes were huge and scared. He pushed a couple fingers into his mouth, sucking on them even as he shrugged.

"It's pretty ugly, isn't it?" Dean went on. "Scary too."

"You don't got to be scared, Adam. Just tell us what you know," Sam ordered. Adam's gaze jerked to him before falling to the floor.

"Kid—Adam. You're not in trouble," Dean said again. "You're not going to _be_ in trouble, and I swear, whatever you say, we're not going to laugh or yell or any of that shit."

Sam nodded and crossed his heart, once Dean had whacked his shin.

Dean waited for Adam's eyes to lift before he tapped the grey thing in another picture. "You saw this, right?"

Wide, hazel eyes stared. Dean waited. Then Adam nodded once.

"You see it a lot?"

Another nod.

Dean's mouth tightened. "Can anybody else see it?" he asked.

This time Adam hesitated then he shrugged.

"Can grownups see it?" Sam asked.

Dean looked up at Sam and nodded—that was a good question. He was already expecting Adam's negative head shake. "Kids can see it?" he asked and got a nod in return. "All kids or just some?"

"Some," Adam said around his fingers.

"Does it scare you?" Dean asked. He tried to ask gently, but fuck knows gentle wasn't his thing. Adam stopped sucking and just stared at him. Tears filled his eyes, and one fell as he nodded.

"Says I'm all alone. No one wants me 'cept him." And then the kid was all out crying again—huge sobs, big tears, little body heaving with the force of it, and Dean couldn't take it.

"Shh, shh," he crooned as he gathered up the little kid, lifting him towel and all, so he could pace the hall with him. "You're not alone," he said. "You've got Sammy and me, right? And Deputy Joe cares. He'd never let you be totally alone, right."

The kid just dug his head into Dean's neck even harder, muttering something.

"What's that?" When Adam didn't repeat it, Dean gave him a jiggle. "What did you say?"

"But Mommy's gone," Adam whispered.

And Dean couldn't argue with that.

~o0o~

  
Sam watched as his brother—his _big_ brother—cradled Adam and rocked him and hummed (badly) to him. Sam knew Dean would keep it up until Adam fell asleep. He also knew that he—Sam-had scared Adam badly. He hadn't meant to, but the kid's refusal to answer had been frustrating.

Dean hadn't gotten frustrated. He'd just got down to Adam's level and… talked. Just talked, and Adam had talked back once he'd finished crying.

Sam knew that Dean had given up the idea of being normal, as in finding a decent girl to marry and having a couple kids of his own, and it struck Sam as really sad. Dean was built to take care of family. Hell, he'd been doing it for him and Dad for as long as Sam could remember. Once again, Sam wished for this to become real, permanent, the end of all their travelling.

Not that he said any of that to Dean. "I'm gonna grab the laptop and see if the stuff Adam said turns up anything."

Dean didn't stop humming—AC/DC, maybe; it was hard to tell—just gave him a quick nod, and went back to pacing Adam to sleep.

Sam's laptop bag was in the guest room along with the rest of his stuff—Dean being efficient again. He had no idea if Adam's mom even had internet access, let alone a wireless connection, but maybe somebody nearby would have an open connection he could leech from. It didn't take him long to access some of their favorite sites and to find something that almost matched Adam's information.

"What've you got?" Dean asked as he walked into Sam's room.

"Adam?" Sam asked instead of answering.

"Out, poor kid. You know his mom only died three days ago?"

"That's it?" Sam had assumed it had happened a while ago. Then he wondered why he'd assumed that.

"That means that either she or Deputy Joe had Dad's latest phone number," Dean said, and he was right. It meant that somehow, for some reason, either Dad had given it to one of them, or that the deputy had looked it up. "Dad's not quite so under the radar as we thought."

"Or maybe she had him look it up," Sam suggested. "Maybe she was going to tell Dad that he had a kid."

"Maybe he already knew," Dean spat at him and Sam laughed.

"You don't believe that," he said. "Hell, I don't like Dad the same way you do, and even I can't believe he'd ignore his own kid."

Dean shrugged, rolling his shoulders as if he was uncomfortable. He probably was, Sam thought. Dean had far more invested in his image of their parents than Sam did. Sam couldn't even remember their mom. Dean could. The idea of Dad having sex with anybody was bad enough, Sam could admit that, but he at least was willing to see their father as human. Dean… Dean probably wasn't happy about a lot of this situation, but Sam was willing to bet that the fact that Dad had produced a child with someone other than Mom would be the thing that bothered Dean the most.

Maybe it would let him to see their father as human, and fallible. Maybe it would encourage Dean to stand up for himself sometimes. Stand up for _them_ , so they could be a normal family not this tiny army unit fighting an endless, hopeless war.

Of course, they still had the Battle of Adam to fight.

Sam pulled out his notes. "So I think we're looking at some variation of a Hollow Child," he said.

Dean raised an eyebrow in question, so Sam continued. "'Hollow, or Empty Children,'" he read, "'are so named because they are, in a sense, empty: they have no animating spirit of their own. It is uncertain what caused them, but once formed, they roam the earth, visible only to those they can hunt.'"

"That sounds non-specifically creepy," Dean said.

"No kidding," Sam agreed. He read further; "'When they find someone who matches their criteria, they latch on to that person, follow them, and wear them down emotionally until the Hollow Child can strike. Unfortunately, the stolen _anima_ never lasts long, and the Hollow Child will soon be on the hunt again.' The article goes on to explain they choose their victims." He skimmed ahead. "Except it sounds like they don't really know. 'A Hollow or Empty Child will appear for no apparent reason. It will hunt sometimes for days, sometimes for years; then it'll stop'."

"What do they mean 'it will stop'? Don't they know _how_ to stop it?"

Sam shook his head. "Doesn't look like it. Theories only."

Dean sighed. "That's what I thought that meant." He ran a hand through his damp hair. Combined with the gel Dean used, it made his hair stand up in new and hilarious ways. "Well, shit. You think Pastor Jim will know what to do?"

"Doesn't sound like anybody knows what to do, but we've got to try," Sam responded. "First we need to get more details on the four kids who died. What their symptoms were, if anybody saw or felt anything."

Dean snorted. What was the chance that anybody ordinary saw anything, Even if someone _did_ see something, they would probably explain it away as something else.

Sam shrugged in reply. He agreed it was unlikely, but they still had to ask.

"You wanna make the call?" Dean asked.

Sam's eyebrows went up. Dad never let him do the interviews. Dean knew that.

"You've got the ideas," Dean shrugged. "You know what you're looking for." That Dad wasn't here to object went unsaid.

"Sure," Sam said, trying to keep his excitement under control. Dean knew anyway. His mouth lifted in a lopsided smile as he tossed Sam his phone. "Remember, you're a big, bad monster-hunter, right?"

Sam grinned. "Of course I am. I'm a Winchester."

Dean laughed and ran his hand through his hair again, rubbing the watered-down gel onto his jeans. "I'm going to take a shower." He gave the door frame a couple raps with his knuckles, and then he was gone.

Sam couldn't help the way his heart sped up. He was actually going to do this. Dean had actually left him in charge of interviewing a witness. Sure, it wasn't a total civilian—Deputy Joe was aware of the supernatural—but looking back over their conversations, it was obvious that Joe hadn't thought of an unnatural cause for those kids' deaths. He wouldn't have known what to look for, or what questions to ask, but he could've still found out important stuff by accident.

Sam knew what to ask. He'd listened in on both his dad and Dean interviewing witnesses and survivors. He'd listened, never asked. What if he forgot something important?

His heart rate went into overdrive.

He ran downstairs to his bag and pulled out one of his notebooks. He'd write out a list of questions. He chewed on his pen as he thought, adding other things that would be nice to know, linking them with lines, until the page was full, and he realized that he was just delaying it.

He was nervous.

Not only was Adam's life on the line, maybe, but this was his first solo interview. Dean had trusted it to him, and he wanted to do a good job. He wanted Dean to know that his trust hadn't been misplaced.

Jeez, Sam thought, you'd think he was four and not fourteen.

He took a breath, pulling the air in slowly then exhaling in one quick burst—time to do this thing.

He opened up Dean's phone and called Joe Barton's number. It rang a couple times before Joe picked up. "Hello?" The deputy's voice rolled through the circuits, just a deep and melodic as it had been in person.

"Uh, yeah. Joe? This is Sam. Sam Winchester."

"Yah. I remember you. What's up?"

A quick breath, a quicker internal pep-talk, and Sam leaped in. "At the station, Ms. Sharpe mentioned that four kids had died, and that cause of death hadn't been determined."

"You want to talk about that? Oh, jeez…" Joe went quiet. Sam waited. "Heck! Hang on a sec. Let me pull over. The weather makes it hard to drive and talk, ya know."

"Oh, I'm sorry," said Sam. "I didn't know you were at work."

"Yeah. Got patrol now that Adam's being cared for." There was a squealing sound that Sam hoped wasn't the deputy crashing into anything. "Okeydokey," Joe finally said. "Now what was the question?"

"The four kids that Ms. Sharpe mentioned," Sam repeated. "How did they die?"

"Oh, hmm." The line went quiet. "Well, it wasn't murder, or anything you boys need to worry about. In fact, the CDC is up here looking into it."

The Center for Disease Control was here? That meant whatever had happened to those kids was weird and mostly unexplainable. How could Deputy Joe not think it was a hunter thing?

"Just… humor me," Sam said. Then he ran down the list of facts he needed—dates, symptoms, locations, commonalities. The first victim, Shania Lake, died last August. She'd been seven. The last, Marcia Chandler had died just before Christmas. Jimmy Tallough and Elizabeth Lofsen had died at irregular intervals between the other two. They weren't related, didn't know each other, and didn't live in the same areas. They hadn't even gone to the same school.

Sam looked at the list of negatives and felt like stomping in frustration. "Did they mention seeing anything or anyone hanging around in the days before they died?" he asked in desperation.

"Oh, well. Hmm," Joe mumbled as he thought. "Oh, yah. Jimmy Tallough mentioned being followed by a grey dog. His foster parents looked for it but couldn't see it. Considering what his father had done… Well, Jimmy's eyesight wasn't good after that, ya know."

It was horrifying how often monsters weren't supernatural, Sam thought.

"Wait," Sam said. "He said it was a grey dog?" One of Adam's pictures had made the thing look almost like a dog.

"You bet," Joe confirmed. "Small with grey fur."

It was a start. It didn't prove anything, but it was still a start.

"Did any of the other kids mention anything?" he pushed.

"Marcia Chandler's caretaker mentioned the girl was having nightmares while her parents were away, worse than normal. She thought someone was looking at her, trying to grab her." Sam shivered as the deputy's low voice made the description sound particularly ominous.

"–wasn't there for the other two. Don't know anything about them."

"Did anybody else describe seeing what the kids had?"

"Not that I recall," Joe replied. "But then the other two didn't really have anybody around who'd listen to them talk about seeing things."

Poor kids, Sam thought. "It sounds like none of them had family."

"Oh jeez, no, Marcia had parents, older siblings," Joe replied. "Of course, her brothers were a lot older—the youngest boy graduates this year. And Bill and Edie travel a lot for their work—that's her parents."

"So Marcia was alone a lot," Sam stated and Joe confirmed it. Sam pushed for details on the other three kids, and it his theory turned out to be right. Shanie Lane was the daughter of an alcoholic. She got left with friends, grandparents, or even dropped off at the hospital, whenever the mother wanted to go for "a couple drinks". Jimmy had been in foster care for the third and probably last time, since his father was serving 15 years for First Degree Assault. Elizabeth Lofsen had survived the car accident that killed the rest of her family. Marcia, a surprise arrival, had been left with hired caretakers while her family continued their busy lives.

None of them had been older than ten.

"Did they all have the same symptoms?" Sam asked.

"Ya know, I'm telling you that there's nothing otherworldly about these kids' deaths," Joe said.

"Best to be sure, right?" Sam insisted. "What you want is for the deaths to stop. Doesn't matter who does it."

"Well, yeah," Joe agreed like he had every time.

"So how did they die?"

"Well, they developed a form of necrosis."

"Necro… Their cells died?"

"You bet. But weirdly. They didn't swell and burst, like I heard was normal, but shrank and dried out. The kids–" Sam heard the deputy swallow. "Well, by the time their brains and hearts stopped, they looked like mummies."

Sam swallowed. "They were alive?"

"Yah. Poor little guys," Joe's deep voice was pensive. "We called the state health guys after Jimmy… you know, passed on. The state guys called the CDC."

"And they have no idea what's causing it."

Sam was completely unsurprised when Joe answered negatively. "Not so as they're telling us," the deputy said. "I could try to get a look at the files, if it's important."

"You could?" Sam said, surprised.

"Yah, I guess so," Joe replied. "I never thought of it before, but all those kids—they felt alone, abandoned, yah? Kind of like Adam."

"Yeah," Sam said. "Exactly like Adam."

"Jeez dang it! How long?"

"We don't know. It kind of depends on what we're dealing with. We have to figure that out first before we can figure out how to fight it."

"Gotcha; it makes sense." Sam could almost see the deputy nodding his head on his thin neck. "I won't be able to get the CDC files, but I'm sure the city boys will let me look at Elizabeth's file."

"Whatever information you can get to us," Sam said. "We're going to be calling someone we know who's close by. He should be able to help."

"I surely do hope so," Joe said soberly. It was a statement Sam could agree with completely.

He hung up the phone and wandered down the hall to Adam's mother's room, where Dean was sleeping. Dean had spread his stuff out—clothes, weapons, and the latest pop thriller he was reading. What _did_ surprise Sam was that he was changing the sheets on the bed. Dean wasn't usually so sensitive.

"You changed the sheets!" he said approvingly.

"I had to," Dean answered in disgust. "They were pink! With flowers."

Sam should've known.

He gave Dean back his phone and ran down what he'd found out from Deputy Joe. "So it's sounding even more likely that it's some kind of Hollow Child," he concluded.

"Good work, junior detective," Dean said, smiling at him.

Sam felt the warmth blossom inside him at the praise, but forced himself to roll his eyes at the stupid nickname. "Thanks, asshat," he insulted Dean, but his brother's smirk just grew. "You'll phone Pastor Jim tomorrow?"

"First thing," Dean promised.

Sam nodded, relieved. He turned to go then turned back. "And Adam's school?"

"Yeah, mother hen," Dean replied with a laugh. "I'll figure out if he's supposed to be in school, and call them, too, if I need to."

"Okay, good," Sam said with a nod. He half turned to the door then stopped. "You know all those kids had one thing in common."

"What's that?"

Sam looked back at his brother. "They all felt abandoned, unloved, unsettled. If that's what the Hollow Child is preying on, it means Adam feels that way."

"So?" This time Dean was frowning at him.

"Then we need to stop him from feeling that way," Sam replied. "We need to make Adam feel that he's safe and wanted and loved."

"Aw fuck, man. I gave the kid a bath, _and_ put him to bed. What else am I supposed to do?"

Sam snorted. "Well, for a start, you could use his name." He turned back to the door and exited, ignoring Dean's muttered "bitch, bitch, bitch" as being the moans of a sore loser. He also tried to ignore the warm spot that blossomed when Dean called "You did good" after him. But it still made him feel good.

Then he passed by Adam's room.

Dean had left the door open, letting the dim light from the hall fall across the kid's too-big bed. Adam was curled up under his blankets so tightly that the only thing exposed was his hair. At least he _was_ sleeping, and not thrashing around having a nightmare.

He was _so_ tiny. And something was hunting him.

As he prepared for bed, Sam couldn't stop theories and questions from running through his head. He couldn't stop trying to figure out what the Hollow Child wanted and what they could do to counter it. He didn't like admitting it, but Dean was right: they needed Dad here. John Winchester was an obsessive control freak with paranoid tendencies, but he was a damn fine hunter. Although, he probably wouldn't be able to see the creature, either, Sam realized. So it was back to keeping Adam feeling happy and safe.

When his mind ran out of thoughts on their current hunt, Sam realized he was all alone. In his own room. By himself.

No Dean twitching and breathing in the other bed.

No Dad snoring like a steam engine in the other room.

No semi-trucks blowing their air horns on the highway.

Quiet.

He rolled onto his other side.

He wondered if Dean had put that huge-ass knife under his pillow, even here. He probably had. Half the time, Sam thought that knife was Dean's security blanket.

It was really quiet.

That's why he heard it: a noise like a mouse squeaking, two or three times. Followed by a soft cry. It came from Adam's room.

The Hollow Child was attacking Adam!

Sam sat straight up. His heart pounded and he turned clammy, cold sweat covering his body. He was halfway to the door when he heard the soft thump of little feet hitting the floor. He opened the door in time to see Adam padding quickly down the hall to his mother's room.

Shit, the kid was probably half asleep and forgot that his mom wasn't there anymore. Instead, Adam was going to find Dean and wake him up, and that wouldn't be good. Dean would be asleep, hand on his knife, and he'd know—even asleep—that whatever was approaching wasn't Sam or Dad.

Sam threw back the covers and took off after Adam. He almost called his baby brother's name, but his socks didn't give him any traction on the hardwood floors, and he slid into a knick-knack table. The corner hit his diaphragm and it was hard to breathe let alone call out. By the time he could right himself, it was too late. Adam had opened this mother's bedroom door and was standing at the bed.

"Dude? Whazzup?" Sam heard Dean say, followed by "Nightmare? Ah man, sucks."

Then the covers lifted and Adam crawled up into the bed, and Sam's jaw dropped. Dean had… He was… He just…

Why was Sam surprised? Dean had always had a soft spot for kids. Dean had always let Sam share his bed when Sam had a nightmare. This was no different. Except it was, somehow. It was.

"You coming too, Sammy?" Dean's voice floated out of the darkened bedroom. "You c'n take his back."

"It's _Sam,"_ he said with a grumpy frown. He shifted his weight, realizing that his toes were friggin' _cold_ now that he wasn't wrapped in blankets.

"Well, c'mon, _Sam_ ," Dean said. "In or out?"

"Wan' Sammy too," Adam said, voice shaky and subdued.

"There you go, _Sam_. The dude has spoken." Dean mocked. "Now, hop in before you turn into a Sam-sicle."

So Sam crawled in behind Adam. His little brother, who was tucked under Dean's chin just like Sam used to when he was Adam's age. Or a little older. Now it was Adam there, because Adam needed it. Sam wasn't upset; it was just weird, that's all.

He didn't know what to do with his hands.

Adam solved that problem by reaching back, grabbing his arm, and pulling it around himself. Then the kid hugged it like it was a teddy bear. "Can't get me now," Adam mumbled.

"No, kid," Dean agreed, his voice a whisper in the dark. "It can't get you now. We've got you. Me and Sam won't let it get you." Then Dean started humming something nice, and comforting, and familiar, and Sam hardly even noticed when he fell asleep.


	4. The Kids Aren't Alright

The next morning came way too fucking early, as far as Dean was concerned.

Still, there was coffee— _good_ coffee, too. Once he figured out how to work Kate Milligan's machine, the fresh-brewed smell filled the place and made Dean feel better about being alive and here in Minnesota with his father's freaking _love child_. As long as he didn't look out the window to see even more snow drifting down, it was all good.

A cup and a half later, he opened his phone. He didn't have to wait long for Jim Murphy to answer. It was seven o'clock and the pastor would've already been up for at least two hours.

"Good morning," said Jim's familiar voice. "How may I be of service?"

"Hey, Jim. It's Dean."

"Dean! Well, my goodness, it's been a while since we last spoke. Where are you? How's the weather down there?"

"Uh…" What was it with Minnesotans obsession with the weather? "Actually, we're only about an hour away, over in Windom. It's snowing."

"Windom, my word. We're practically neighbors." There was a wealth of warmth and acceptance in the preacher's voice. "Whatcha doing up there?"

Suddenly, Dean wasn't sure about this. Was it Dad's story to tell? Was it Adam's? Or theirs? Did he have the right to bring an outsider into Winchester family business? Dad would be pissed if he found out—and he probably would—and that on top of having another little kid around.

Screw it, Dean decided. Adam was just a frigging baby and some damn thing was hunting him. His father's pride had got no place in that equation.

When he couldn't figure out how to start the conversation, he fell back on his preferred method: he dove in at the deep end.

"Did you know Dad had a kid up here?"

The stunned silence on the other end of the phone was all the answer Dean needed.

"It's likely Dad didn't know either," Dean added. It eased them over the first awkward bit, and allowed him to throw out the second one: "Doesn't matter much now: the mother's dead."

Jim made a low, sympathetic sound.

"Yeah, it pretty much sucks," Dean drawled. "But it's why me and Sam are in Windom. Came up to take care of Adam; turns out it's a bit more complicated than we thought." Dean proceeded to outline the rest of the situation. Dad being on a hunt, the terms of the will, the house, Adam seeing creepy little grey creatures following him—he even threw in Sammy's exams and the nasty effect of salt and gravel on his baby.

"It sounds like it's been stressful for you," Jim said when Dean wound down.

Stressful? Maybe, but there was fuck-all he could do about it. "Whatever. We'll deal," he said. " _If_ we can figure out what's stalking the kid."

"Can you send me a copy of Adam's drawings?"

"You know he's about seven," Dean said. "His drawings are stick figures."

"Even so, he will have included the most noteworthy of features," Jim said. "For instance, the grey skin."

Dean snorted. "Dunno, man. Maybe he just likes grey."

"No kid likes grey, son. Trust me," and Dean had to concede that one. Grey had always been the last crayon to be used in any box they'd ever found.

"What color did he make the eyes?" Jim asked.

Dean picked up one of the drawings. The thing was frigging tiny, but he dutifully squinted at it. "Black, it looks like. It looks like he gave it a green mouth."

"A green mouth?" Jim sounded surprised.

Dean sorted through, hoping for a bigger picture, and came across one where there were two of the things and they were huge. They were looming over little stick figure on a bed, and more eyes and mouths filled in the picture. A nightmare, Dean guessed. If this is what Adam dreamed last night, it was no wonder he'd been willing to crawl into bed with Dean.

  
"Yeah," Dean said. "Definitely green, with sharp teeth. It's also got red irises and no white in its eyes."

"Well, hmm," Jim said softly. "That's ringing some bells, for sure." Dean could hear pages rustling as the pastor looked in his books for more information.

"Sam figures it's a Hollow Child," Dean said. Speak of the Devil: Sam was trudging into the kitchen, Adam by his side. They both looked tired. He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "You want eggs?" he asked. Sam shook his head and jerked his chin at Adam who was already setting the table, studiously adding up the number of bowls and spoons and glasses as he put them out.

"Porridge," Sam replied.

Dean mimed throwing up. "Pancakes?" he suggested hopefully. "Sorry, what was that, Jim?"

"I said it could be that or a Hungry Child. Or even an Empty Child, although those are rare; thank the Lord."

"There's a difference?" he asked Jim.

"Minor ones," Jim said. "But important in terms of approach. Both the Hollow Child and the Hungry Child fixate on a particular target. They won't move on until their chosen victim is dead. An Empty Child is an opportunistic killer. It's not looking for anything specific, it just wants more," he explained. "The biggest difference is in how they kill. A Hollow Child kills slowly, trying to retain the thing it wants. An Empty or Hungry Child will kill quickly, as if sucking down more of what they don't have will eventually fix them."

Dean whistled at Sam who straightened from his search of the cupboards. "Adam still wants porridge. It's what his mom would make him after a bad night."

Dean grimaced. "Fucking sludge, but whatever. How did those others die? Fast or slow?"

Sam shot a look over at Adam, who was carrying a container of brown sugar to the table that was nearly as big around as his chest. He took a step closer to Dean. "Slow," he answered in a low voice. "Mummified from the outside in. Last things to go were the heart and brain."

"Seriously?" Dean murmured.

Sam nodded.

"Shit." Dean looked at Adam and tried not to picture him like that—drying out cell by cell and limb by limb. He lifted the phone to his mouth. "Looks like it's a Hollow Child. Four victims, all slow deaths."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Pastor Jim said with a sad sigh. "Those poor families."

"Actually…" Dean thought. "Maybe that's how it chose them. The families were either AWOL or dead, Sam said. Those kids were essentially alone."

"It could be."

"But Adam's not alone anymore, so he should be safe."

"I'm sorry, Dean," Jim said in his soft preacher-giving-bad-news voice. "If it is a Hollow Child, it won't matter. It's chosen its victim and it won't move to someone else just because the boy's circumstances have changed."

Dean swore loud and viciously in his head. Oh well, back to Plan A. "So how do we kill it?"

"Ah, well, that's tricky." Jim sounded scarily hesitant.

"They _can_ be killed, right?"

"I personally know that being stabbed with a bone from one of its victims will kill an Empty Child, and I've been told that shooting a Hungry Child with an iron round while it's feeding will kill it, but I've also been told that it has to be beheaded with a bronze blade."

"And a Hollow Child?"

Jim cleared his throat. "Yah, well. Hollow Children are the rarest of all of them, so I've never met anyone who's hunted one."

Dean squeezed the bridge of his nose. The way Jim was tap-dancing was giving Dean a bad feeling. "Can they be killed?" Dean repeated.

"Not that I know of," Jim admitted. "But like I said, I don't know anybody in North America who's fought one. Doesn't mean nobody has. It might be enough to just remove Adam from its vicinity. It works with a Hungry Child." But they both knew they weren't dealing with a Hungry Child. Pastor Jim cleared his throat. "Let me make a few calls, ask around," he offered.

"We'd appreciate it," Dean said.

"For now, perhaps the best way to fight for your brother is to make him feel loved, and safe, and wanted."

"I'm having freaking oatmeal for the kid," Dean growled.

"A noble sacrifice, for sure," Jim laughed. "You always did refuse to eat oatmeal, no matter how your father dressed it up. Remember that time he tried frying it with onions and potatoes?"

Dean shuddered, right down to his gut. "That kind of sacrifice has got to prove something, right?" he asked. It was whining, or close enough to make Dean wince at himself, but it was freaking _oatmeal._ It just made Jim laugh harder.

"I'm sorry, son," he said once he'd settled down. "But sometimes you just have to say the words."

They chatted a little more about nothing much. Jim offered to try and make time to come and help, or maybe just visit, but January was a busy time for him, lots of babies born, lots of christenings, so Dean said no, not unless they needed the help.

"Okay, son. You take care of yourself and look after your brothers," Jim said before he hung up.

Dean stood there, dead phone to his ear. The pastor's words struck him: _Look after your brothers._

His first impulse had been to ask, "My brother's what?" but then he'd understood. He had two brothers now, not just one. It was true, he knew it was, but it didn't _feel_ true.

With Sam… They had a history, days and weeks and years of memories building on each other. He _knew_ Sam. Understood, or at least recognized, most of his twitches and quirks. Adam was an unknown. He didn't know him from, well… Adam. Now he was expected to make the kid feel "loved, wanted and safe"?

Safe. Safe he could do in his sleep. He was Dean Winchester, for Christ's sake. He was a bad-ass mofo who _hunted monsters_. If he couldn't make the munchkin feel safe, who could?

Loved and wanted, though…

He couldn't say the words to _Sammy_ let alone some little sprog he'd just met.

"Oatmeal's ready," Sam announced, breaking into Dean's thoughts.

Oh, fuck no. Not even to keep all the world's children safe.

"You guys go ahead, enjoy it. I'm gonna… um, call Joe; see if Adam's supposed to be in school." Yeah, that would work.

Sam shot him a knowing smirk. "We'll save you some, won't we, Adam?

Adam nodded hard enough to make his hair fly. "It fills you up 'n' makes you feel better."

"I'll give you the first one, kid," Dean said as he left the kitchen, and the smell, behind. He called Joe like he'd said he would. The first thing the deputy did was ask if Adam was okay, and had they figured out what was killing the children. Dean explained their current theory and how other kids would be okay because it had picked Adam as its target.

"Lordy jeez. I'm not sure if that makes me feel better."

"I know," Dean agreed, running a rough hand over his head. "We've got someone looking into it. Maybe we can figure something out." On the other end, Joe grunted hopefully. "Actually, I'm calling for more... mundane reasons," Dean said. "Does Adam have to go to school? He's in grade one, right?"

"Grade two, yah, but he doesn't have to go in until next week."

Dean let out a relieved puff. "Great, cool."

"The funeral's today though."

Shit.

"Funeral?"

"Cremation, actually," Joe confirmed. "I talked Kate into it after seeing what those ghouls did. You bet I did. And then there's an appointment with the lawyer."

Dean sighed unhappily: cops, social workers, and lawyers. Three things his father had warned him to avoid at all costs, and he was neck deep in them.

He thought of Adam, creeping into his bedroom last night, eyes wide and scared and innocent. Even if he hadn't been their father's son, Dean couldn't have abandoned him. "Hang on," he said to Deputy Joe. "Let me write this down," and he dutifully noted the details of times, places, and even that Adam's suit was hanging in his mom's closet and his shoes were on the upper shelf.

"Great, super. Two o'clock. We'll be there." Jesus, he didn't want to go to the service. He hadn't known her, didn't want to make nice to her friends or family, and didn't want anything to do with taking his half-brother to his mom's funeral. He'd dealt with lots of dead bodies, but this? This was something completely out of his comfort zone. It was going to suck so frigging hard…

He gave his face and scalp a vigorous scrub, hoping it would make things look better or something. It didn't, but who cared? It was still good to be doing something.

He'd barely hung up the phone when it rang again. It was a number he didn't recognize. He pressed the talk button. "Yeah."

"Dean Winchester? It's Lisa Sharpe; we met last night." "

"I remember, Miz Sharpe," he answered. "How'd you get this number?" because he sure as shit hadn't given it to her.

"Deputy Barton added it to Adam's file," Miz Sharpe said in her crisp voice. "Is that a problem?"

Only if my father finds out, Dean thought. "No, not at all. Just nobody told me."

She hummed almost, but not quite, suspiciously. "Can Adam come to the phone?"

"Sure," Dean said, swallowing his growl. "But he's got a mouthful of oatmeal." He held the phone out over the table. "Adam, say 'hello' to Miz Sharpe."

Adam made an indistinguishable sound that could've been hello.

When Dean put the phone back to his ear Miz Sharpe was laughing uncomfortable. "He sounds good," she said "Just make sure he has some fruit with that, yah? He needs to have balanced meals."

Dean held out his phone, stared at it, and counted to five.

"He'll have a banana for dessert," he said dryly. "Look, is there a reason you called?"

"Oh, for sure. I called is to inform you that there's a meeting with Kate's lawyer today at two."

"I am aware of it," he said. "And we're definitely planning on being there."

"Excellent," she said brightly. "Well, then, I'll let you get back to your oatmeal. Don't forget to dress Adam up warmly. It's going to be another cold one out there." The phone clicked in Dean's ear before he'd finished saying good-bye.

She'd been checking up on them, Dean realized. Making sure Adam wasn't being abused. For whatever reason, Joe's ex-girlfriend had taken a dislike to him. She had it fixed in her brain that he was going to, dunno, pimp him out or some damn thing. He wasn't the bad guy, Dean knew. He was the fucking _hero._

He stretched out his neck a bit, rotated his shoulders, paced, and tried to think happy, calming thoughts.

He really wanted to punch something.

"So," Sam said from the doorway, Adam at his side. "Did you get everything sorted out?"

Dean put on his smile. "Of course I did, Sammy. It's what awesome big brothers are for."

"I'm sure I'll find out when I get one of those," Sam said.

"We saved you oatmeal," Adam said. He was still in the spaceman pajamas Dean had picked last night as the least lame the kid had. Who dressed a boy in _lambs_ and _rainbows_?

"Thanks, kid. I appreciate that." Dean tried to sound a little appreciative. The munchkin looked at him with big happy eyes and it gave Dean an idea. He crouched down in front of him. "Hey, kid—Adam," he corrected when Sam kicked him in the thigh. "Last night, that grey thing was in your room, right?"

Big eyes, Sammy's eyes, now sad and slightly scared, went up and down.

"You did the right thing, coming to me," Dean assured him. "Now, I need you to do something else. If you can."

Again with the eyes.

"Can you draw a bigger picture of it?" Dean asked. "Nobody else in the pictures, just that thing. Think you can do that?"

The kid looked away and shrugged his shoulders.

"Either Sammy or I will sit beside you," Dean assured the little guy, but he didn't look reassured. "Your pictures; they're going to be clues, and we're like… Like Deputy Joe trying to figure things out from the clues. That's cool, huh?"

Adam's face brightened. "Like Steve? Looking for clues?"

Dean snuck a look at his brother who was, unfortunately, standing _right there_. "Yeah, exactly like _Blue's Clues_." Dean ignored Sam's laughter—it wasn't like there was a lot of choice of what to watch at the dumps they stayed at. Instead, he kept his focus on Adam. "The thing is, the grey dude isn't as nice as Blue, so you can't play with it, or encourage—try to make friends—with it. If it shows up, you'll tell me or Sam right away, okay?"

"Okay," Adam replied solemnly.

"Pinky swear," Sam said from beside them. He held out his baby finger, crooked and waiting. "You promise to tell us, and we promise to keep you safe."

Adam's eyes got wider as he realized how serious they were. He locked his finger with Sam's. One shake, up-down, and it was done. Adam looked like they'd taken a weight off him.

Unfortunately, now Dean felt weighted down, because he had to figure out how to make good on Sam's promise.

~o0o~

  
"Winchester."

"Dean, it's Jim, Jim Murphy."

Like he couldn't recognize the pastor's voice. "Hey, back. You got good news for us?"

"That picture really helped narrow it down," he said. "So I've got news. I'm not sure if you'll consider it 'good'," Jim temporized.

"It can't be killed."

"It can't be killed," Jim confirmed. "However, it can die. I spoke to a couple people in Europe, and it seems that once a Hollow Child chooses its target, it literally can't pick someone else."

"That's good news?"

"Have patience, son. If their target hits puberty without giving in to the Hollow Child, it dies. Just poof!"

"Poof?" Dean asked skeptically.

"It's a technical term."

"The thing is it'll step up both the frequency and the intensity of its attacks. Every mental and emotional weakness that Adam got, it'll try to exploit."

Dean clenched his jaw. Puberty! Why couldn't it have just been some bizarre holy object and an arcane ritual? "Guess I'd better get used to sharing my bed with a munchkin."

"Yah, guess you'd better," Jim said with a light laugh. "And don't be shy about asking for help. If Adam's attacked hard, you have to fight back equally hard. Surround him with everything and everyone who feels the slightest bit fond of him, you hear?"

"Yeah, I got it." Dean took a quick look into the living room where Sam and Adam were watching cartoons. He switched the phone to his other hand, and moved to where they wouldn't be able to hear him. "Did your contacts mention that these things can talk to their target? Like, telepathically?" he asked.

"Well, no," Jim drawled out slow, giving the words about five syllables each. "They surely didn't."

Dean hummed confirmation. "It's done it a few times now."

"That's good information, Dean," Jim said. "I'll make sure that it gets out there."

Into the wider hunter community Jim meant, and that was great but it didn't help Dean with his immediate problem of keeping his newest brother alive. "Good, great. And if anyone can think of a way to block it that would be great, too."

"Have you tried aluminum foil? I hear that's good for stopping all sorts of signals."

"Ha, ha," Dean said without humor.

"Sorry," Jim said. "Couldn't resist. I will ask, and if anyone has any halfway decent suggestions, I'll let you know."

"Thanks, Jim. 'Preciate the help."

"It'll be alright," Jim said. "With you and Sam looking after him, your brother will be alright."

They said goodbye, making tentative arrangements to get together when things were more settled. Dean gently put the phone back in its cradle. Then he leaned over and put his face in his hands. The pastor's voice had been filled with conviction. He truly believed that they could save Adam just by being here. Maybe it was part of being a Man of the Cloth, but Dean couldn't join him in that faith.

It would be really useful to have Dad here right about now, no matter how pissed Dean was at him.

~o0o~  


  
Joe Barton showed up around noon carrying a suit bag. "You're about the same size as my brothers."

"Oh, hell no," Dean said.

"Just jackets and ties," Joe replied. "So you don't stand out too much." Which was about the only argument he could've used to get Dean into one of those monkey outfits.

Forty-five minutes before the start of the service, Dean started the Impala to warm the engine. It took some doing; he had to turn the ignition over, again and again, but eventually she stayed going. If they were going to stay in Minnesota, he'd have to invest in a block heater.

Twenty minutes before the start of the service, they were piled in the Impala, Sam and Adam in the back, and followed Deputy Joe's county vehicle to the funeral home. A home for funerals. Dean hadn't ever been in one during daylight hours, and he could only hope that the sun would keep the ghosts down to a minimum.

"Pastor Jim got those pictures you sent by email," he told Sam, because it was better than thinking about having to sit through a freaky ceremony with gross music and strangers, while trying to ignore any dead people hanging around.

"Yeah, I know," Sam replied. "He sent me a confirmation. I told you it was better than snail mail."

"Yeah, you did tell me that," Dean conceded.

"And I was right," Sam gloated. "The World Wide Web is gonna completely change how we do stuff. I mean, sending stuff over the internet is so much faster than regular mail. One day, we won't need the post office at all."

"And how would we get our credit cards, huh?" Dean asked. "I don't think they can send actual plastic through the telephone wires."

Sam shrugged. "You can't deny it's completely changing things. Making a lot of things easier and quicker."

Dean shrugged. He had no interest in denying it. Instead he focused on driving. The plows had been out, and the sanding truck, so the roads were pretty good except at the intersections. In the back seat, Sammy and Adam played 'I Spy' and the variation of 'Punch-Buggy' they'd developed years ago that used doubles of anything. Sam had changed it up again, choosing to tickle instead of hit. It was wussy but Adam looked like he was having fun, which meant, hopefully, no little grey kids hanging around.

The funeral home's parking lot was mostly empty, so Dean was surprised when he walked into a packed room. Dark red velvet drapes lined the walls of the dimly lit room. Dean supposed it was to make the place look cozy, but in his opinion, all it did was make it look dark and filled with shadows.

A neatly dressed man in a jacket with the funeral home's logo ushered them to the front. The people stared at Adam as they passed; their expressions were of either sadness or pity, and they made Adam shrink down and grow quiet again.

It made Dean want to snarl.

He gave a nod to Sam, and his little brother planted himself on Adam's other side. No way were those vultures getting their emotional hooks into Adam. The kid was going to have a hard enough time getting through this.

The usher pointed them to some empty chairs close to an elderly couple that Dean guessed were Adam's grandparents. Dean let Sammy sit closest to them—he didn't do well with old people. Adam was next; then he sat next to Adam. He sat while people he didn't know droned on about a woman he hadn't known (but that his father had known too well) and tried to convince himself that Sam's arguments about Mom having been dead a long time were totally valid, and that Dean had no right to judge their father, considering how much Dean liked female company.

He tried to tell himself all that.

He shivered, and knew it wasn't from the air conditioning. It wasn't from actual ghosts either—he knew what those felt like. It was just some lingering presence saying someone had been alive once but no longer was. It was just as well he wasn't carrying an EMF meter.

Adam tugged on his sleeve. "Is that… Is that my mom in the box?"

Dean looked at the pale wood casket. It was pretty plain, suitable for a cremation, he supposed, although considering it was going to burn, they could've used a canvas bag. The tops were down. He wondered if Deputy Joe had managed to put salt in with her.

"Yeah," he said to the kid. "Yeah, your mom's _body_ is in there. Hopefully, your mom's someplace else, someplace nice."

Some lady who had worked with Adam's mom was up there now, talking about selflessness and sacrifice, blah, blah, blah.

Another tug on his sleeve. "I don't want Mom to be in a box."

Dean leaned down. "Kid, if I were dead, I wouldn't want to be in a box either."

Adam obviously didn't get the humor. His eyes grew even bigger and filled with tears. Dean did _not_ want the kid to break out the waterworks in here. He leaned over to tell him so when Adam's eyes slid past him and widened. Every hair on Dean's body stood up, and his blood hummed.

"Is it here?" he asked. Adam nodded. Dean gave Sam a low whistle. When Sam looked at him, he jerked his chin in that direction even as he picked the little sprog up.

Sam's eyes widened in comprehension, and he looked where Dean had indicated. Sam looked at the spot straight on, he looked at it sideways, he looked away and back, away and back, trying to catch a glimmer or a distortion or anything that would indicate a supernatural presence. Finally, he turned back to Dean and had to shake his head to his brother's raised eyebrow. He could hear his big brother whispering to Adam, something reassuring and tough.

"Your brother's very good with the boy."

Mr. Milligan had to repeat it a couple times before Sam understood what he'd said. The stroke had affected not just his speech center but the muscles on one side of his face. That, combined with a thick 'Minnesootan' accent made him virtually unintelligible to Sam. Mrs. Milligan was nice, but she'd forgotten his name within minutes of him having told it to her. And he'd told it to her twice so far.

Sam kept up a stilted conversation with Adam's grandfather while sneaking looks at the other children in the room. There weren't many, and none of them seemed to be looking at whatever Adam had seen. But then, none of the other kids were targeted.

"Is it getting closer?" he heard Dean ask. He saw Adam shake his head. "Is it going away?" was Dean's next question. Again, Adam shook his head. So not awful, but not great either.

"How about," Dean said. "When this is over, we go out for hamburgers?"

Adam shook his head. "Ice cream."

"Ice cream?" Dean said in horrified shock. "It's colder than penguin snot out there, and you want ice cream?" Sam snickered at the same time Adam giggled. The only ones who didn't seem to appreciate Dean's humor were… everyone else, really. The person up front stared at him. Mr. Milligan tilted his head Dean's way. The people behind them muttered.

Dean, never one to accept a rebuke from anyone but Dad, looked around. "What?" he challenged in a too-loud voice. "You think she'd want her son to be all emo and crying? He misses her. You'd better believe he misses his mom, and he shouldn't need to bawl his eyes out to prove it to you all."

There was coughing and shifting and whispering in the room around them. Dean ignored it to speak to the person at the front of the room—Kate's shift supervisor or something. "Well, get on with it. The kid wants ice cream and we got a meeting with a lawyer after this."

More whispering, shifting, and coughing. Above it, Sam heard Adam's voice, high and clear. "It's gone now."

~o0o~

  
For the most part, the lawyer's meeting went better than Sam expected, meaning Dean didn't blow up at anyone when the terms of the will were confirmed. The house was Adam's. He could move out without selling when he turned eighteen. If they shifted him before then, it would be sold and the money put in an account for Adam's use. The Winchesters "wouldn't see a penny."

Dean shrugged—they'd never had money and didn't need buckets of it now. Sam brightened—he couldn't remember having a home and being forced to stay in one place didn't seem like a hardship. Considering the surprise on the lawyer's face when Dean shrugged and Sam smiled, Sam thought maybe he'd been expecting a different reaction,

After that, the lawyer droned on about the conditions, inspections, supervisors, and minimum requirements. Then there were exceptions, provisions, and addendums. Sam eventually tuned it out in favor of playing patty-cake with Adam who was even more bored than Dean.

Finally, the lawyer stood up and the meeting was over.

"Thank Christ," Dean muttered. "Now we can get out of these frigging monkey suits."

"And ice cream," Sam reminded him. "Maybe a burger?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "You and your mutant growth genes," he mocked lightly.

Sam grinned. "Gonna be taller than you."

"I'm still gonna be your big brother," Dean scowled in return. "Still gonna be able to kick your ass."

Dean's fierceness was kind of lost in the whole 'helping the seven-year-old put on his boots' thing Dean had going. It made Sam smile. How many days had Dean done the same thing for him? Bundling him up and bitching him out at the same time.

Not that he was going to bring up anything so sappy. "Can't kick my ass if you can't reach it."

And on that triumphant (and totally true) statement, Sam exited the lawyer's offices. He rarely got the last word and he wanted to enjoy it.

They went back to Adam's house to remove the 'monkey suits' and to pick up the bags they'd packed for their trip to Lincoln. Adam just watched, looking nervous. He'd never been outside of Windom before, but both Dean and Sam joked with him, and told road stories until he looked better. Then they went to the local Biggerson's to eat.

And eat…

Turned out, it wasn't just Sam who needed massive levels of fuel. Adam went back to the kid's menu three times before slowing down.

"Jesus, kid. That's impressive," Dean said in awe. Adam burped. Then blushed when Dean laughed. "Kid, you got style."

The third helping meant it was dark by the time they left Windom.

"At least it's not snowing," was all Dean said before he cranked up the stereo.

Sam was in the back with Adam. He'd set up the portable light that shone down on the seat so that he and Adam could do stuff in the back without messing up Dean's night vision. An arrangement Dean had figured out a few years ago when it had been the two of them in the back and John driving. They'd played cards, practicing their Poker and Blackjack, beating each other up over War until their dad had growled at them to keep it down.

Sam was kind of surprised that it wasn't a bad memory; it didn't make him angry. Sure, the reason they were in the back seat driving through the night was usually because Dad was moving them again, but the actual memory was… pretty nice.

Dean _so_ sucked at Rock-Paper-Scissors.

Tonight, though, Sam was cramming his Spanish. He was sure he had the Biology locked—it was just memorization—but there was an oral component to the Spanish test, and his accent sucked. Beside him Adam was looking at a Star Wars comic book, narrating the story to himself.

It was weird to have a small child in the car—like they'd stepped back ten years to when Dean had still been relegated to the back seat with him, but it also felt… right. Like the car itself had missed it. Outside it was dark and cold, but inside the Impala it was warm and safe, just like it had always been.

They had a home now. A home that wasn't a motel room, or a musty rental: a real home.

They could afford to keep books and lists and more books about whatever they wanted. They didn't even have to be supernatural related, although they could definitely build up a collection to rival Pastor Jim's, or maybe even Bobby Singer's. Both those old hunters knew so much they were like the reference section of the public library, giving out information for free to anybody who asked.

He could do that.

They'd get a phone call, and he'd do the research while Dean made supper. John wouldn't be there—he'd be off on a hunt someplace—but it would still be okay. They didn't really need him anyway. Not for that kind of life.

The surprisingly domestic daydream kept Sam's mind off his Spanish declensions well into Nebraska. He fell asleep with the imagined sound of a lawnmower as a lullaby.


	5. Protect Your Own

Sam woke when Adam crawled into his lap. "Whazit?"

"It's here," Adam whispered.

That woke Sam up. "It's here? In the _car_?"

"What's here?" Dean asked from the front before he realized. He looked at the empty passenger seat, but Adam was shaking his head. Their brother pointed out the window.

Sam lifted his head to get a better view, but there was nothing but dark emptiness broken by the occasional farm's floodlight.

"Is it doing anything? Saying anything?" Dean asked from the front. "It's not attacking, is it?"

"It doesn't want me to go," Adam said. "It says I'll never see home again."

"Screw that," Dean growled. "Two days. You'll be back in your own home, your own bed, in two days, buddy. Think you can ignore him for that long?"

Adam nodded and Dean accepted it as final, but Sam wasn't so sure. The Hollow Child, or whatever it was, had to be pretty powerful to be projecting itself the way it was, making Adam see it, hear it, despite having Dean at the wheel probably going too fast for the road conditions.

If that thing killed Adam because Sam wanted to take a test…

It wasn't going to happen, Sam reminded himself. They wouldn't let it happen.

He pulled Adam onto his lap more firmly, and proceeded to tell him about all the promises Dean had made him and kept. He told Adam he didn't have to worry—they had him. They'd make sure Adam got home. He promised it and hoped that he was as good at keeping his promises as his big brother had always been.

The shadows outside the car thickened.

~o0o~

  
The next time Sam woke up, they were in Lincoln in the dinky parking lot of their crappy apartment. Dean's hand was on his knee shaking it. "Sammy. Hey, Sam, wake up."

"'m awake," Sam said blearily. He lifted a hand to his face and tried to scrub some awareness back into it. 'Timezit?"

"Ten," Dean answered. "There was a work crew out blocking the highway just north of the city."

"Accident?"

Dean shrugged. "Or an outage. You hungry?"

Sam's stomach burbled in response. Sam shrugged. He _was_ always hungry these days.

"Your tummy's loud," Adam commented

Dean laughed. "Stupid fucking question, I guess. Let's get you and Cabbage Patch settled inside, and I'll go get something from the truck stop."

"Pizza?" Sam suggested hopefully. He hated the food from the truck stop. "They deliver."

Dean thought about it then nodded acceptance of the plan. "Roads are crap, anyway," he said. "Are you okay carrying the kid, or do you want me to take 'im and you carry the bags?"

Sam assessed himself: sore bones, numb legs, and groggy on top of it. Carrying a seventy-pound kid across an icy parking lot probably wasn't a good idea. "You take him. I'll get the bags."

The parking lot was as bad as Sam had feared. No gravel, no salt, barely any attempt made to clear it at all. He slid Adam into Dean's arms before grabbing their clothing bags and following. "Weapons?" he asked.

"After the munchkin's settled."

"Do you think salt will keep the thing away?"

Dean sighed. "Fucked if I know, Sammy," he said. "This thing… I can't see it, can't even sense it. I mean, a ghost chills the room. A poltergeist usually tries to take your head off, but this thing… I have no clue what works to keep them away since I have no idea when they're actually hanging around. And I'm not waking the kid up to ask if it's here, either," he finished.

Sam couldn't argue with that. Instead he dropped the bags in the closet and turned to discover that Dean had put Adam on his bed, the bed farthest from the door that Dean and Dad always put him in.

"You okay sharing?" Dean asked. "I know you're growing like freaking bamboo, but you're still a little smaller than me."

What was Sam supposed to say to that? No, put the kid on the floor?

"He squirms," Sam responded dryly. "And kicks."

Dean grinned and shrugged. "He's growing. Just like you. Speaking of," Dean continued before Sam could get another protest in. "How're the aches? Do you need a massage or anything?"

This was why he could never hate Dean. One minute the guy was a complete jerk, the next he was offering to rub liniment into Sam's muscles because growing pains were making everything hurt.

"I'll take a hot shower," he said. "Should be good."

Dean nodded. "Wait 'til I get back with the duffle, so Adam's not alone." Then he was out the door. Sam took off Adam's shoes and his coat, got out the bathroom stuff and his sleepwear.

"Okay," Dean called from the tiny living room. "I'm back."

When Sam got out, the door and windows all had a fresh lining of salt, and he could smell the protective herbs that Dean had mixed up and put out as potpourri. He could also smell the pizza. Dean and Adam were at the crappy melamine table that looked like it had been chucked from the _Leave It to Beaver_ set. Adam was kicking his feet cheerfully and stuffing his mouth. Dean was going through the cupboards and pulling out all their food supplies and putting them in an old milk crate.

That's when it really hit Sam, when he realized what it meant: They were moving in with Adam, and they wouldn't be moving out again until the kid was grown. Ten years maybe. They—he—was going to have a home, a stable base. He could get friends, join clubs, and not worry that he'd have to abandon them in a couple months, maybe less. It would be like living in a different world, a better world.

He was looking forward to it.

He smiled as he sat at the table and grabbed a slice of pizza for himself. "Hey, Adam."

Adam, cheeks filled with cheesy goodness, just smiled at him.

Sam looked over at Dean and raised his eyebrow, asking Dean if Adam had said anything about the Hollow Child. Dean gave a half-shrug. He hadn't asked. Sam frowned at his chicken-shit big brother before turning back to Adam. "So…" he began; then he realized that he couldn't ask Adam if the creature was hanging around without accusing the boy of breaking his promise.

There was, however, another way of asking...

"How do you know when the grey kid's around?" he asked. "Do you just look and there it is, or you can feel it looking at you?'

Dean had stopped his cupboard inspection to listen. Adam glanced down at the table. Beneath the table, his feet stopped kicking. The only moderately bright kitchen area seemed dimmer.

"Does it talk to you?" Dean asked. He was crouched down in front of their baby brother, hands on Adam's knees. Adam nodded.

It was Sam's turn again. "Did it always talk to you, or is that new?"

"Always," Adam practically whispered.

"When did it start?" Dean asked. Between the two of them they got Adam to explain and describe everything. They made it a game—Dean fell back on his _Blue's Clues_ expertise after he shot a warning glare at Sam.

Sam had no intention of ragging on him, though. Dean's approach had let Adam relax enough to swing his feet again. No way was Sam messing that up. Instead, he brought out a notebook and made a big show of writing down all the clues. He also drew "suspect" sketches, stick figures of no higher quality than those Adam had made.

Eventually, Adam's second wind died, and his blinks got longer and longer.

"C'mon, champ," Dean said, swinging the boy up onto his shoulder. "Time to get ready for sleep."

"I'm not sleepy," Adam protested, but he contradicted himself by yawning big and long.

"You don't have to go to sleep," Dean reassured him. "Just get into your PJs and brush your teeth. We can sit on the couch, and listen to Spanish TV so Ginormo-Brain can practice his accent."

"Ginormo-Brain," Adam repeated, giggling sleepily. When he fell asleep three minutes into the show, neither Sam nor Dean said anything about what the kid had told them about the Hollow Child. Mostly, Sam thought, because neither of them had anything hopeful to say.

~o0o~

  
It was the middle of the night, and Dean wasn't surprised to find Adam standing beside his bed.

"Another nightmare?" he asked even as he released his grip on the knife under his pillow.

Adam's nod was outlined by the light from the bathroom. "Don't like it here. It's dark."

"Is that thing here, the grey thing?" Dean asked because he had to be sure.

Adam nodded. "Outside. It's starin' at me. Don't like it."

Dean snorted. "No fucking kidding, kid. I wouldn't like to have that thing staring at me either." He lifted the blankets. "Should we get Sam in here?" he asked, because if he had to be awake at ass-hour of the morning, then Sammy should be, too. But Adam shook his head.

"Sam's snoring on his books," Adam said. "An' you're bigger."

The kid snuggled in nice and tight, and Dean hummed some soft Zeppelin. It didn't take long for Adam's breathing to relax into sleep. Dean lay awake, staring out the window at nothing but darkness. The motel's flashing neon light didn't reveal the green mouth or red eyes of the Hollow Child looking in at them, but Dean was sure it was there.

It took a long time for him to fall back asleep.

~o0o~

  
Breakfast was the leftover pizza and the last of the juice they'd left behind when they left to get Adam. The milk had gone bad so Dean chucked it.

"Do you need me to drive you?" Dean asked, looking at Adam who was still in his pajamas and barely awake.

Sam looked out the window, seeing snow but also clear skies and no obvious wind. "Nah. It's not that far.'

Dean nodded. He'd put together something for Sam's lunch—fruit, cheese, crackers, pepperoni, more fruit—and he put the bag down on the table. He also pulled out a bill. "Five bucks," he said. "In case your mutant growth genes require more fuel."

"I'm going to be taller than you," Sam said with a slyly triumphant smile.

"In your dreams," Dean replied even as he thought it was likely true. He'd reached six foot one just last year. Sam had already hit five eleven and he was four years younger. Chances were good he'd have to look up at his baby brother.

Sam just grinned harder, so Dean gave him a smack to the back of the head.

Then it was time for Sam to go. One last panic attack when he thought they'd forgotten his biology notebook in Windom (it was in the Impala), a reminder that they'd meet in the school library after his Biology test, a quick hug for Adam, and Sam was gone.

Dean looked around the small living room. They called it an apartment, but it was really a motel that could be rented by the month… or the hour. They'd been here since leaving Indiana in October. Three months. Not a bad run, not as long as they'd stayed around Tulsa, but then there'd been a lot of shit happening around Tulsa.

It was certainly long enough for Sam to have accumulated a crap-load of books.

"It smells funny," Adam said as he dropped onto the sagging couch.

"Yeah, it's called 'l'eau de cheap hotel'," Dean said with a snort. "You get used to it."

Adam's nose wrinkled like a disturbed kitten's, and it was easy to see the kid didn't believe Dean. Of course, Adam wouldn't have a chance to get used to it, would he, Dean thought. Adam had a house in Windom; a nice house, with two floors and a driveway, and a freaking back yard that he and Sam would be sharing with him. And Dad, too, of course. It was a weird thought, but okay. Dean was getting used to the idea. Kind of.

Dean stared at their cobbled together bookshelves, and debated. Take or leave?

It wasn't just the books, either. They'd managed to pick up a few of their favorite movies on videocassette. Dean had found a decent set of hand weights at a garage sale. Sam had bought a half-dead plant and the stupid thing hadn't given up and died yet.

Take or leave?

Fuck it, he decided. He'd take as much as he could fit in the car. It's not like Adam's house lacked room.

Eventually, Adam tired of kiddie shows, so he got dressed and started "helping". He'd grab one item from some shelf, present it to Dean for his decision on whether it should be packed up or left behind. If Dean decided to pack it, Adam would turn it over with a smile. If Dean decided to leave it, Adam would put it in a pile in the corner. It was surprisingly companionable.

They were done by lunchtime.

They discussed food options while Dean walked to the manager's office to turn in the key. Greg ("call me George") Burns had been an okay guy. He'd often warned Dean when guys checked in who had a liking for rent boys— _young_ rent boys—so he knew to keep Sam out of the parking lot. It seemed like the right thing to do to let the guy know they were out of here. For the rest of the month, George could rent the room for cash and the owners would never know.

"You taking off?" George said, bulging eyes giving him a perpetually surprised look. "I thought you were here to June."

Dean glanced down at Adam, holding firmly onto his hand. "Things change. Hey, if my dad shows up tell him to check his messages."

"Will do, kid," George answered. Then it was a final, firm handshake and it was time to go.

Dean looked down at Adam, hanging onto his arm like a remora on a shark. "So, have you decided what you want to eat?"

They had hamburgers, because Adam had awesome taste, and then they went to Sam's school. It was time to talk to the principal again.

~o0o~

  
"Yvonne?" the secretary said. "There's a Dean Winchester here to see you."

Ms. Strahovski remembered Dean Winchester. "I'll be right there."

She walked into the office lobby to see the bad-boy she remembered listening to a little boy with big eyes. There was a small smile on Dean's face that said he was barely listening, but wasn't going to cut the child off.

"Dean," she said and the boy shut up instantly.

"Hey, Teach." Dean said. It was followed by the boy stating, "You're pretty," in a high, clear voice.

Dean laughed. "Good taste, bro," he said to the boy.

It made her blush. _Blush_. Ms. Strahovski hadn't blushed in years.

"Thank you," she said as calmly as she could manage. She turned to Dean. "I assume you're here to confirm that you kept your word and got Sam back in time for finals."

"Actually," he said then paused, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Sammy's moving in with me," the little boy said. "So's Dean. They're gonna take care of me. Protect me from the grey thing."

Ms. Strahovski felt her eyebrow lift. "Oh, they are?"

The boy nodded. "They're my new big brothers, and they're like Jedi warriors."

This time Dean's laugh was more stilted. "Not so much with the Jedi part, but yeah, he's not completely wrong. This here is Adam, Adam Milligan. He's our brother. He lives in Windom."

"I see," she said, because she did see. "His mother?"

"Car accident," Dean replied. He glanced at the boy as if making sure the simple statement hadn't hurt him. It was oddly endearing.

"And you're the boy's guar–"

"Adam's."

Ms. Strahovski nodded slightly, allowing the correction. "You're Adam's guardian?"

"No," he replied. "My dad is, but…" his voice trailed off into a shrug.

"Mr. Winchester–" she began.

"Dean's good."

"Dean," she corrected. "Do you really think you should be taking on the responsibility of another child?"

Dean's return look was bewildered, as if it was a ridiculous question.

"You are, what, twenty years old?" she continued. "No offense, I know you're doing well with Sam, but he's a teenager; he's mostly independent. That's not the case with Adam."

Now Dean looked belligerent. "Are you saying I can't do it?"

Ms. Strahovski sighed. "I'm saying you shouldn't have to. It should be your father, but from what you've said, he's never around." The boy made a small distressed sound. When she looked at Adam, his eyes were wide and upset. Damn. "Maybe we should talk privately in my office."

"No, I'm good here," Dean's voice was hard. "I've looked after Sam for most of his life. I can look after Adam just fine," he said. "And it's not a hardship; it's just the way it is. I can deal with it."

"Will you feel that way six months from now?" she asked. "In a year or five? Will your girlfriend? How will you support him? It's another mouth to feed when it's obvious you've had trouble feeding yourself and Sam." Even as she said it, Ms. Strahovski knew she shouldn't have. Male pride was a tricky thing, and she'd hit on one of its major pillars: the ability to care for the family.

"I didn't come here to be lectured about Adam," Dean said. "I came here to tell you that Sam will be transferring to the high school in Windom, so you should do whatever it is you need to do to, you know, close out his file or whatever."

"Sam shouldn't be shifted right now," she protested. "He's in the middle of a difficult program, and tenth grade is a defining year for school." But Ms. Strahovski knew Dean wasn't listening to her. He'd already scooped up his brother and was putting him on the ground, large hand carefully but firmly gripping Adam's tiny one.

"Sam's a bright kid—all his teachers say so—he'll do just fine." He looked down at his littlest brother. "C'mon, Adam. Let's go find the library. I can read you a story."

Large blue eyes looked up at the leather-clad young man and Ms. Strahovski saw the complete trust in them. The vice-principal hoped—hoped, prayed, please, God, please—that the trust wasn't misplaced, because it was obvious nothing short of an order from God was going to get Dean Winchester to admit that looking after a seven-year-old boy was beyond him.

" _One Fish, Two Fish_?" Adam's voice was young and sweet.

"Sure, kid. If we can find it," And they left without looking back.

The secretary looked at Ms. Strahovski with her eyebrows up in question. Ms. Strahovski shrugged. She didn't know if they'd make it. However, since they were moving to Windom, it wasn't her problem anymore. She had plenty of other kids who needed her attention.

~o0o~

  
Dean searched through the shelves for something that wasn't too old for Adam or too young for himself. Dr. Seuss was fine, but no way was he reading _Curious George_.

"Dean?" Adam said, all quiet-like, and Dean knew that wasn't a good sign.

He forced enthusiasm into his voice to response. "What's up?"

"It's here."

It was like pouring alcohol on a fire; blood and adrenaline raced through Dean, all of his senses went into high-alert, his muscles and joints readied for a fight.

But there was nothing there.

"Where is it?" he leaned down to ask, putting a bracing hand on Adam's shoulder.

Adam tipped his chin to the far corner of the small library. It held couches and chairs, upbeat posters, and that was it. Dean could see the magazines on the tables, the fake plants in the corner, and yeah, it was darker than it maybe should've been, but Dean could _not_ see the Hollow Child. He swore under his breath.

"Is it talking to you?"

Adam shook his head.

"Good, last thing you need is for that son of a bitch to be a Chatty-Cathy." He meant it to be reassuring, but how in the hell was he supposed to _fight_ this thing? The battleground was Adam, and Adam was the prize. In order to fight the Hollow Child, Dean had to keep Adam happy and feeling safe.

Pretty freaking pathetic weapons, Dean thought, but he could hear his Dad telling him to adapt; a good soldier, a good _hunter_ , was always adapting to new circumstances.

He gave Adam's arm a comforting rub, feeling stupid and awkward. "Okay, if that changes, tell me right away, right?"

"Okay," Adam replied, face and voice serious.

"Okay." Dean stood but kept his hand on Adam's shoulder. He kept it there while they looked for a half-way decent book, and he kept Adam in his lap as they looked through _Star Wars: Chronicles_ and waited for Sam.

"Hey, guys," Sam said when he arrived. "How'd it go?"

"They don't have Dr. Seuss here," Adam complained, beating whatever Dean was going to say.

Sam leaned down and smiled at him. "I know. Unbelievable, right?"

Adam nodded his head enthusiastically, but Sam had noticed that he was tucked firmly into Dean. Sam shot a questioning glance at his big brother. Dean looked over to an empty corner of the library. It was a dim corner, Sam thought, like the lights didn't quite hit the floor. Then he realized. It wasn't empty; it was just that _he_ couldn't see anything.

He looked up at Dean for confirmation and got a small nod in return.

Damn.

He jerked his chin in the direction of the dim corner and got another short nod in reply. He dug in his pocket for the bit of copper wire he'd put there. It wasn't as effective as an EMF meter, but he might pick up something. He walked around and through the spot Dean had indicated, long part of the 'L' held up and waiting. It quivered once, lightly, but nothing definitive.

He shook his head at his big brother and Dean gave a shrug back. It had been a thin hope using a dowsing rod, but it had to be tried.

"Come on, Cabbage Patch," Dean said as he lifted Adam from his lap. "Let get you home to Windom." Then Dean asked him how his tests had gone, so that's what they talked about as Sam left Northeast High School for the last time. They held Adam's hands, and Sam made sure to include him in their conversation. He helped Adam count to ten in Spanish, and then convinced Dean to swing the little guy, though that didn't work too well since the corridor was beginning to fill.

"You checked out?" Sam asked as the Impala came into view. Dean nodded but Sam could see their scraggly plant sitting in the shotgun seat, surrounded by bags of stuff. The back wasn't much better, filled with boxes and more bags.

"Did you take everything?" Sam asked, stunned.

"As long as it wasn't rotten," Dean confirmed.

"I helped," Adam said proudly.

"Yeah, he was a big help," Dean said. "At least he didn't try using chopsticks to pick up the laundry."

"I was six, dude. Let it go already!" Sam protested. "Are we going to make Windom?" he asked before Dean could say something else obnoxious.

Dean looked up at the sky, assessing the chance of snow. Then he leaned down to Adam who was already in the back seat. "Is it still around?"

Adam's eyes immediately shifted to the side of the car. Neither of the Winchesters needed the boy's nod to know the Hollow Child was still there, still watching, still waiting to claim its prize.

Dean looked at Sam. "I think we're going to have to make Windom."

Sam nodded agreement. Adam would feel better, safer, if he was in his own home surrounded by his stuff. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's split this banana stand."

Dean looked at him in mock horror. "And you complain about _my_ sayings." The driver's door creaked as Dean opened it. It was a familiar sound. Sam was in the back with Adam again—Dean had filled the shotgun seat with the straggly plant Sam had found in the garbage. The back wasn't much better. The foot wells had boxes in them, and there was a garbage bag of soft stuff that Adam was using as a pillow.

They left Lincoln as the sun was setting. Dean kept one eye on the sun as he pushed his foot down harder on the gas. Somehow, he knew that the creature would be stronger in the dark.

Sam sat with Adam in the back and played Twenty Questions, and I Spy and whatever other car game he could remember. Dean kind of wished he could take a picture of it. Seriously, it was like Before-and-After pictures of his baby brother… of Sam, he meant. He had two brothers, so he had to specify. He kept the music at a tolerable level for the two of them in the back seat. It was lower than he would've liked considering how fast he wanted to go, but he figured Adam needed human contact since that son of a bitch was still following him. Adam had already told them it had started talking to him again.

That was when his cell rang.

"Winchester."

"Dean," his father growled. "What the hell is going on?"

"Didn't you get your messages?" Dean asked, cradling the phone on his shoulder so he could turn off his music.

"Oh, I got 'em. Now tell me, what the hell is going on? What's this about having a brother, and why the hell have you left Lincoln? That's not what I told you to do."

Dean's first impulse was to apologize, soothe, justify. It was what he'd always done when their father was angry since it was easier on everybody. But the apologetic, soothing explanation froze in his throat.

"Answer me!" John ordered. "Why did you leave Lincoln when I told you _expressly_ –"

"His name is Adam," Dean interrupted. "He's seven, and there's no doubt he's yours because he looks almost exactly like Sam did at his age." John started to sputter something, but Dean wasn't finished. "His mother was a nurse. Apparently, you met when you got hurt hunting ghouls with a local cop, and for whatever reason, you forgot everything you told me about sex, STDs, and birth control because she got pregnant."

"Jesus." John's voice is practically a whisper.

"She died, like, five days ago and she named you in her will. You're his guardian."

"No, no. That's impossible," John said. "It's not practical."

"Doesn't matter whether it's practical," Dean argued. "It's the situation."

"No. I would never… I don't remember her, and I would _never_ forget… I _always_ use protec–"

"So maybe it leaked," Dean interrupted again—he didn't want to know what his father always did during sex. "What matters is that Adam is your son, our brother, and he needs us."

"No," John repeated. "Impossible. There must be somebody else." It wasn't a question and Dean knew it. It was an order for Dean to find someone to take Adam, raise Adam, so that John could continue hunting.

"Not going to happen, Dad," Dean replied. "This is your mess and we're going to take care of it." _Now_ his heart started to trip-hop. He swallowed to moisten his suddenly dry throat. He couldn't speak.

There's silence on the other end. "What did you say?" John said, soft and deadly.

"There's no one else," Dean soft-pedaled. "Adam can't leave Windom. It's in the will."

"Do I give a flying fuck about the will?" If anything, John's voice got even more menacing. "Is this Sam's idea? Has he convinced you that we should have a home base again?"

"No! Christ!" Dean protested. He swapped the phone to his other hand, so he could have a moment to catch his temper. If he yelled at Dad, Dad would just yell back. Not a good idea when he was already doing ten above the speed limit on crappy winter roads. Dean took another breath. He could still hear his dad yelling at him, though his voice sounded tinny.

"He's got a thing after him—a Hollow Child probably."

"What?" This time John's voice sounded bewildered, as if he couldn't keep up.

"From his drawings and the descriptions, it's a Hollow Child. Kind of like a Shtriga —you know that thing you hunted in, um, Fort Douglas, back when Sammy was just a kid.

"I remember," John growled. Even after all this time, the fact that Dean had left Sam alone when John had specifically ordered him to stay with his brother, still rankled with their Dad. It bothered Dean, too, but he felt more guilt than anything. Sammy could've been killed and it would've been his fault.

Dean cleared his throat. "Anyway, it's like that."

"So kill it and get the hell out of there."

Dean flexed his fingers around his phone. They were starting to ache he was gripping it so hard. "That's not… It's impossible."

"Nothing's impossible," John scoffed. "If it's like a Shtriga, kill it while it's feeding."

"It's not a Shtriga, Dad. It's a Hollow Child. If it gets a chance to feed then that means Adam's as good as dead."

"Dean," Sam said from the back seat.

Dean held up a finger, asking his brother to hold on a second. He lifted the phone back up. "It's killed four kids already, Dad."

"So fucking _kill it!"_ his dad yelled. "Find a fucking way and get back to fucking Lincoln, where I fucking left you."

Screw conciliation.

"Not going to happen," he said flatly. "I already talked to Jim Murphy, and he talked to some people, and there's no fucking way to kill it. Don't you think I would have, if there'd been a way? But there isn't, so we're stuck in Windom until Adam outlasts it."

"It's not safe!" John yelled from the phone.

"Dean!" Sam yelled from the back seat.

"What?" Dean yelled at them both equally, but it was Sam's reply that caught his attention.

"It's here! Jesus, Dean. It's in the car!"

Dean dropped the phone. "Shit! Where?" He kept both hands on the wheel as he glanced around the Impala looking, but he couldn't see anything except Adam curled up tight on Sam's lap. "Adam, where is it?" he demanded. "What's it doing? Is it attacking?"

Stupid, fucking, invisible monsters! There wasn't even a cold spot to give him a clue.

"It's in the plant" Sam answered. "Adam says it's just standing there, but…"

"Do we stop?" Dean asked.

"I don't know!" Sam sounded freaked out. Like he did when he was trying not to sound freaked out. Dean glanced around again to try to see the damn invisible monster in _his_ car, but he had to keep his eyes on the road. The plows had been out, but the snow was still blowing and icy patches were all over the place.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered. He picked up the phone when he heard his dad calling his name.

"Look, I can't talk now–"

"What does Sam mean, 'it's in the car'?"

"Exactly what he said. It follows Adam around, looking for a chance to get him," Dean said.

"And you can't see it?"

"Only the target can see–" Dean stopped. He didn't have time for this. "I can't explain it right now," he said instead. "I have to get Adam back to his house where he feels safe. It's the only way to fight it off."

Dean practically heard his dad growl in annoyance. There were echoes of it in his voice when he spoke. "This is bullshit. I'm going to check some sources, see what they have to say."

"Fine, whatever," Dean muttered into his phone but his dad had already hung up. "Adam, buddy. How you doing?"

"You're in trouble because of me, aren't you," the kid said in a small voice.

"What? No," Sam scoffed.

Adam didn't buy it. He gave a little gasp, as if he was going to start crying again. "Your dad was _really_ mad," he said. Dean heard the kid's breathing pick up speed and become tight and shallow. "I'm messing it up for you."

Aw, _shit_! He should've known John's voice would carry. "Screw Dad," Dean said without thinking. But hearing those words come out of his mouth… It drove all thought out of his mind for a moment.

"Dad's usually angry," Sam said quietly, covering up Dean's sudden silence. "It's got nothing to do with you."

Dean took a shuddering breath and refocused on the present. "Sam's right, Dad's attitude is nothing to do with you and this situation."

"He doesn't want me," Adam replied. His voice was weak and beaten down.

"He just doesn't like surprises," Dean said. It was an understatement of epic proportions.

"Besides, _we_ want you," Sam added. "And we're the ones who are here, not Dad."

Adam gave a dry, scratchy sniff and Dean echoed it unconsciously. Then he did it again more carefully. There was a smell… Like a long-empty room, filled with dust and decay. The Impala slid over a patch of black ice and pulled Dean's attention back to the physical world.

"You don't know me," Adam said. Dean glanced into the rearview. The kid was shrinking back, trying to disappear into the seat. "How can you care?"

"You're our brother, that's how," Sam said. "That means something to us." All Dean could do was nod in agreement. He was going too fast for the road conditions, but they were still an hour out of Windom. He pushed on the gas pedal just a little bit more.

Adam shook his head. His breathing was ragged, painful, and fucking scary to listen to.

"You say that now, but you didn't want me at first. What if you don't want me later?" he asked. "You'll leave me, too, won't you? Everybody leaves."

"Dean!" Sam's voice was panicked. "I think he's turning grey."

  
"God _damn_ it!" Dean hissed. They weren't going to make Windom.

With a quick glance into the rear-view, Dean swerved onto the shoulder, sliding just a little, before he threw the car into park. He twisted over the top of the seat and gripped Adam's small shoulder, forcing the kid to look at him. "Whatever that little fucker is saying, ignore it. It wants you to feel unloved and all that crap. Hell, it _needs_ you to feel that way, so it can get what it wants." He softened his grip, but didn't let go. "Okay, so finding out about you _was_ a shock, but it's cool now— _we're_ cool now. We're brothers, and we take care of each other."

"You just want the house."

"Christ, no, kid," Dean said fervently. "I've lived nearly sixteen years without one–

"And I've never had one," Sam interjected.

"It's going to be weird as hell to have a second floor."

"And utility bills," Sam added. "And taxes."

"So no, we don't want you for your house," Dean finished. There was enough light from a nearby interchange to see into the back, but Dean couldn't tell if the grey was fading. He looked at Sam. Sam shook his head—the grey wasn't fading. He already knew Adam's breathing wasn't any better, and when he breathed the musty smell was heavy in his lungs.

He let go of Adam and slid back down into the seat. As quick as he could, Dean got out of the car, opened the back door and got in next to his little brother, ignoring the snow crystals being blown around like little spikes. Sam had already shifted so that Adam would be sandwiched between them. Dean threw his arm over the back, enfolding both of his siblings in the loose embrace.

He shut the door and let the Impala enfold them.

"This is where we grew up," Dean said. "This car… It's always been ours. I used to hold Sammy in my lap when he was still in diapers in this back seat. I used to sit here, too. Where Dad could see us in the rearview mirror. I changed his diapers on this very upholstery, but don't worry," he grinned. "We've sterilized it since then."

Adam looked at them, eyes wide, disbelieving, mouth open while he struggled to get a full breath.

Sam picked up on Dean's lead like the bright kid he was. "We put Legos in the vent. They were supposed to make it sound like a playing card in the spokes of a bicycle, but they just rattle."

"Dad was angry with us then, too." Dean laughed, a little forced, but pretty good.

"Dean peed on the tires once," Sam said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Dean jerked forward. "You're not telling him that story."

His protest allowed Sam to lean into Adam. "He wanted to mark the car as 'his' territory, like a dog or a cat."

"Did it work?" Adam asked, wide-eyed.

Sam laughed. "I have no idea, because Dad made him scrub the tires."

Dean shrugged. "I still got the car," he said. He looked down at Adam. Specifically, he looked where Sam had a tight grip on Adam's hand. Adam wasn't any better. In fact, even in the dim light of the nearby interchange, it was easy to see he was worse. His breathing was horrible—like listening to sandpaper going over cement.

"It's talking to you isn't it?"

Adam turned to look in front of him—not at the front seat, but _right there_ by his legs. The freaking thing was right in Adam's _face_. The kid was going to die if Dean couldn't figure this out. He had to make Adam _not_ believe what the Hollow Child was telling him—break that connection, make the kid rethink.

"Adam! C'mon, look at me, man." He put a hand on Adam's tiny, seven-year-old leg. "Hey, listen to me! You know it has to make you feel bad. It can't get at you unless you're miserable. So to do that it's going to tell you a lot of awful things that we _could_ be thinking, or nasty thing we _could_ do, but none of it is real; none of it is true."

"It's trying to make me feel bad?" Adam asked.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, kid. It's trying to make you feel bad. It can't get you if you feel wanted or safe or… you know."

"He means loved," Sam said.

"Yeah, that," Dean agreed, because it was easier than trying to say it. "You're supposed to feel alone, but you're not. You're supposed to be unwanted, but you're not. Not even if Sam and I weren't here," Dean said, looking down at his little brother. "Deputy Joe likes you a whole bunch. If we hadn't showed up, he'd've looked after you."

"He's not my mom." Adam's voice was back to being shaky and watery. He was probably crying again.

"Nobody can replace your mom," Dean said softly.

"I don't remember our mother," Sam said into the quiet. "She died when I was a baby." Adam looked at him in horror. "I didn't need a mother," Sam continued solemnly. "I had Dean."

" _Hey!_ " Sam ducked Dean's indignant swat. "I am not a _mom_."

Sam was laughing lightly. "He's not, but he _is_ an awesome big brother—not as awesome as he thinks he is, but still pretty cool." Dean's mock hurt "Sammy!" brought watery giggles from Adam. Dean looked quickly down at the kid's hand, still nestled in Sam's much larger paw. The color contrast wasn't as big this time. He took a deep breath—still stale but with only a hint of musty. The old fries smell was seeping back.

"You know," Sam said. 'In all this mess, nobody's asked you what _you_ want to do. Your mom left you the house, and everybody assumed you want to live there, but, I dunno, maybe you'd like to come on the road with us?" Dean looked at Sam, heard him offer to give up his dream of a stable home and a (mostly) normal life.

Sam was, he decided, an awesome big brother too.

Of course, he couldn't say that. Instead, he followed Sammy's lead, for once. "You could live in _our_ house," he said, waving a hand around the interior of the Impala.

Adam looked around. His breathing was still rapid, but it wasn't as shallow as before. "This isn't a house."

"Sure it is," Dean stated with flat certainty. "It's more of a home than that rat's ass apartment we had in Lincoln. I mean, you noticed the smell in that place. Now compare that to the smell of my baby."

Dean nearly cheered when Adam joined him for a deep, long breath. There was hardly any stink from the Hollow Child left, so they breathed in the smell of leather and gas, and old food wrappers laid on top of the cleaner Dean had used last. He wondered if it smelled as wonderful to Adam as it did to him.

Probably not, he decided. Life in a car—even a '67 Impala—wasn't for everyone.

"You have to keep in mind; she's not at her best right now. Middle of winter, it's too cold to do more than wash the salt off her," Dean rambled defensively. "In spring, though, I'll give her a real good scrub-down. Get a bucket of soapy water, drag that one over to help." A jerk of the chin indicated Sam, who rolled his eyes and sighed long-sufferingly. "And now, I suppose, you too. We'll wash her all up; give her a nice wax and polish. Then we'll tackle the inside, vacuuming and buffing 'til she sparkles."

"He calls me a geek, but Dean can talk about the car for hours," Sam whispered to Adam in a whisper that was meant to be heard.

"It's really your home?" Adam asked, looking at Sam. His breathing was better, still rough but no longer those rough, shallow pants.

"Yeah, I guess," Sam answered with a shrug. "Aside from Dad, Dean, and hunting, it's been the only constant in our lives. Oh, and I turn fifteen this year!"

Sam looked over at Dean who scowled at him. Sam's smile widened.

Adam looked between the two of them. "Why's that important?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said still smiling. "Why's turning fifteen important?"

Dean scowled harder. "Because he can get his learner's permit at fifteen."

"Then I'll get to drive, which means I get to pick the music, which means we can listen to music that was recorded _after_ 1980."

"I listen to good stuff," Dean protested. "You like my music, don't you, Adam?" Dean looked down at his littlest brother and tried his best 'Sammy eyes' on the kid. It wasn't a success: Adam just shrugged.

"We could listen to stuff Adam liked," Sam suggested. "What do you like?"

Again, Adam shrugged, looking nervous.

"Come on," Dean urged. "You gotta have a favorite band. Who's that guy? Who sings the Bahamas pajamas song with the puppets?" Sam stared blankly at him. "We caught him on TV once. He did Rapunzel with a mohawk—that was cool."

Adam looked at him, looked at Sam, then he looked down at his hands—his completely normal colored hands. "I like Weird Al."

"Weird Al," Dean nodded. "Weird Al's okay. Better than Sammy's emo-pseudo rock. We'll put on Weird Al when the sun shines and we'll bring out the buckets and chamois, and afterwards, we'll go for ice cream."

"That sounds good to me," said Sam. "We could have barbeque after, too. Does that sound like fun?"

"Yeah," Adam said, and his voice was almost back to normal, thank Christ. "But I like sleeping in my own bed. I have stars on my ceiling—they glow." Dean put on a suitably impressed face.

"You'll have to let him carve his initials next to ours," Sam said. "After all, he _is_ a Winchester."

"I'm a Milligan," Adam argued, pulling his hand from Sam's, but it was okay.

"M. W." Sam said. "Flip 'em over and they're exactly the same. Isn't that right, Dean?"

Sam stared at him, but Dean didn't need the nudge to agree. He looked down at Adam, his brother, as he said it. And Adam, healthy and safe, nodded his head.

Adam looked from him to Sam then back again, mouth open, eyes uncertain. Dean didn't know what he finally saw in their faces, but he suddenly smiled at them. "M comes before W, means I get to be first," he stated happily.

Dean was about to disabuse Adam of the notion—alphabetical order did _not_ trump birth order—when Sam caught his eye and shook his head. His younger brother flicked his eyes down at their youngest bro, and Dean looked and saw. Adam was animated, happy. He sniffed the air, breathing deeply, checking it. The 'unused space' smell was gone. Lost under the familiar scent of the Impala, which meant the Hollow Child was gone.

For now.

It had targeted Adam, and according to Jim, it wouldn't stop trying for the youngest Winchester until Adam hit puberty. They'd have to protect the kid for at least five more years, Dean realized. They'd have to live in Windom the whole time.

Five years.

Dad wouldn't be pleased, he knew, but as he looked over at his brothers singing some Weird Al song, Dean repeated to himself what he'd said earlier: Screw Dad. Family— _all_ the family—came first.  


End of story.  


**Epilogue**  


My weekend by Adam milligan

It was nice on the weekend sunny but not hot. Dean sead it was a good day to clean the Impala so he did and he let me help. I got to carve my inishals in the backseat next to Deans and Sammys. I got to use Deans knife. Then we washt her. Dean held me up so I reacht the roof. We got very very wet. 

Sammy mowd the lawn and the grass sprayed over Dammed Dog when he ran away from the mower so we washt him too. Sammy tried to help but Dean sprayd him with the hose and he got wetter than Dammed Dog. I got wet caus Dean used me as a sheld. Then me and Sammy gangd up on him and he got all wet. It was fun but we had to change cloths again.

John BBq ed burgers. He mostly grunted at us caus he didnt get much sleep. Dean sead he came in really really late and thats why he was grumpy. He also frownd and lookt unhappy but Sammy sead he always looks like that.

The grey thing was still there but it stayd far away on the other side of the fence. It lookt at me all the time but Sammy sead to not worry so I didnt. Sammy knows stuff like that.

Dean just sead I was to say that my big brothers are AWESOME! So I am. (He also sead he wood tickle me if I didnt say it but I wood have sead it anyway caus they are.) 


	6. Notes

**Acknowledgements**

The usual acknowledgement goes to the supernatural wiki. It was on that site that I looked up most of the facts that I then ignored. I also used Google and YouTube to research 'Minnesootan' speech patterns. If a phrase or pronunciation showed up in two sites or clips, it was fair game to be included here. FYI: Just about every site and clip mentioned the Minnesotan obsession with the weather, so if you think I mentioned it a lot—that's why.

My betas went above and beyond with this one. 26,000 words in the draft, and they had this puppy back to me within three days. Not only that, but they pointed out errors and weak spots, and suggested ways the story could be better, with their usual skill. **rince1wind**  and **alecto nyx** —you are both super-awesome. Thank you!

Thanks to lexicale and sailorstarshine, the mods of the [spn_illuminated](http://spn-illuminated.livejournal.com/profile) challenge. It's a lot of work to run something like this, and they did an awesome job.

**Original Prompt**

As mentioned earlier before, this was written for the spn_illuminated reverse bang challenge, which means the art came first. I chose 'Child's Play' by [tattooeddevil](http://tattooeddevil.livejournal.com), because how could I resist a kid with a belly like that?

tattooeddevil's prompt summary was "Dean & Sam find a young child (boy/girl is up to author) somewhere and have to try and figure out why the kid is alone and what happened. It takes them a while and the child gets attached to them and they to it (he/she). It's (his/her) drawings are the key to solving the case (a la Dead In The Water). I can also see this going in the direction of wee!chesters, where John finds the child and the boys bond with it (him/her)."

She also requested "schmoop, humor, child-induced situations. Add a tiny bit of angst in there and you're golden! I also LOVE anything with graphic descriptions of what happened to the child and with the case, I like the stark contrast between a horror story supported by colorful drawings." Since working with her was a true joy, I hope she likes what her drawing inspired.

**Factoids**

  * It's January 1998; the week of 26-30 and finals week; they're in Lincoln, NE
  * 1998 is the year Sam met Amy Pond ( _The Girl Next Door_ 7.03) and had his first kiss.
  * For a month in the fall 1997, the Winchesters were in Sioux City, Indiana, and enrolled at Truman High, "Home of the Bombers." ( _After School Special,_ 4.13)
  * Joe Barton is the Cottonwood County deputy who worked with John in January 1990; In the episode Lisa was his wife; he received an award (duty)
  * Cottonwood County Sheriff's dept. employs 9 FT staff: 1 Sheriff, 1 Deputy Investigator, 1 Chief Deputy, and 6 Deputies.
  * Dean would have entered Windom through MN hwy 60; there is nothing memorable about it.




End file.
